


Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace

by explosiontimothy, gearsystem



Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace [1]
Category: Black Sails, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1890s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Epistolary, Established James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Eventual James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton/John Silver, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, Historical, Homophobia, Incarceration of Gay Man, Internalized Homophobia, John Silver is a sex worker, M/M, Multi, POV John Watson, Slow Burn, Sort Of, lavender marriage, long fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 91,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosiontimothy/pseuds/explosiontimothy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearsystem/pseuds/gearsystem
Summary: Within the safety deposit box of one Dr. John H. Watson, an unpublished account of the case and events leading into Sherlock Holmes' retirement are related in full.IMPORTANT NOTE: You do not need to know anything about the Holmes/Black Sails universes to enjoy or understand this fic! But, this does feature spoilers for the plot of Black Sails, so if you're in the middle of watching it/want to watch it, wait to read this until you finish it.This is a passion project by my friend and I, so I hope it brings you as much joy as it did for us to write it.
Relationships: "Calico" Jack Rackham/Charles Vane, Anne Bonny/Madi/Max, Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton/John Silver, Madi/John Silver, Miranda Barlow/Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984079
Comments: 185
Kudos: 124





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i am not great at summaries, but this is an AU/crossover concept my dear friend and i came up with and decided to write together! this is as if what happened to thomas, james, and miranda, had instead happened in the 1890's, rather than 1705, and sherlock holmes is sent to rat out the indecencies going on under their roof. at first, anyway.

**Official Cover Art for Sherlock Holmes & The Lord in Disgrace by @CharCubed on Twitter! Thank you Char, we love you <3**

_Excerpt from the Personal Diary of Dr. John H. Watson, August of 1900_

At first, I had intended for my record of the Hamilton affair to join the numerous accounts of my adventures alongside Sherlock Holmes in The Strand. Given Holmes’ initial intrigue and excitement with the case presented before us, I was certain that it would delight the many avid followers of my famous friend’s exploits. Oh, how dramatically have our circumstances changed since. Nevertheless, I find myself compelled to record this remarkable course of events for my own private memoir if nothing else, in the hope that one day—once the lives of those involved are not in mortal danger—this rather exceptional story will touch someone’s heart as it has so touched mine. 

It was a gorgeous, late summer morning in 1894, early in the month of June. My dear friend Sherlock Holmes had returned to his work of detection just a few months prior, after his… rather unfortunate hiatus brought on by unforeseen circumstances with one Professor Moriarty. Despite my lodgings now existing elsewhere, I found myself spending many a day in my old rooms at Baker Street. Few members of the English public were so aware as to Holmes’ return, as many had only heard of his apparent demise within the last eighteen months or so through my rather dramatic account in the Strand. As such, his work had come to an—according to the man himself—unacceptable drawl.

Fortunately, not all were so led by my tale. One day, a rather insistent knock rattled upon the door to our parlour.

“A Lord Alfred Hamilton, Fourth Earl of Ashbourne,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, informed us. Holmes had given her explicit instruction to allow potential clients in without question, as his exasperation in recent months had reached an all time high. Heeled footsteps approached with fierce determination and there before my friend and I, stood the aforementioned Peer of the Realm looking rather distraught. The gentleman was adorned in a well tailored suit and top hat, seeming to wear his social status under the crown on his sleeve. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Lord Ashbourne?” Holmes chimed in from his spot, lounging across his armchair, feet crossed over the other. He did not stand to greet him, unlike myself, as I clutched a firm, clammy hand with my own in welcome. Holmes’ leisurely appearance seemed to misplace the Lord’s words for a moment as he attempted an answer.

“O-oh, well, first and foremost, Mr. Holmes, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I admit, I have met your brother in the past, but my knowledge of you exists in little but the serials Dr. Watson publishes.”

Holmes looked up at the gentleman with a furrowed brow. Were I less familiar with the behaviour of the man beside me, I may have scolded him for his impropriety. Instead, I offered a seat to our guest, and resigned myself to my writing desk to record any details. 

“Hm,” Holmes replied after a drawn out pause. “My brother’s involvement in the aristocratic dealings of the empire are active as ever, I see. However, I do not believe you are in my lodgings at present to discuss Her Majesty’s government. Would I be correct in that assumption, sir?”

“I suppose you are, yes. I was told to expect any niceties to be abandoned for succinctness, but I suppose words only do so much,” the Earl’s discomfort toward my companion was palpable within the room, and this time I could do little to suppress the urge to quell it. 

“Lord Ashbourne,” I interjected. “What is it that brings you to inquire after the aid of Holmes and myself?”

He turned to face me, and in the corner of my eye I spotted Holmes perk up from his leaned position to study the guest before us. The performance of the aloof, disinterested host, transformed into the fascinated detective.

“You must understand, Dr. Watson,” he started. “This issue is of an utmost delicate nature.”

“I assure you, Holmes and myself are well equipped for sensitive matters. Your word is safe within these walls.”

He averted the gaze of Holmes and I for a moment, contemplating his decision.

“It is a matter that concerns my eldest son, Thomas. He’s been married now for just over five years, and though I have never approved of his choice of wife, there was little I could do to dissuade him. He married rather late—he was nearing thirty, many years out of Oxford—and I rather hoped that marriage would quell Thomas’ stubborn, foolhardy nature. It seems, gentlemen, that I had rather underestimated the wickedness of this woman. She speaks out of turn, often encouraged by Thomas himself, and behaves herself in a manner most unsuited to the wife of an Earl’s heir. Her contacts are numerous and capricious, and she often uses them to steer Thomas’ opinion in the most insidious ways. On top of it all, she has yet to provide him with an heir and has indicated no intention to do so for the foreseeable future. I am certain you can understand, gentlemen, how my disapproval of the woman has done little but grow in the time since their nuptials…” His words trailed off into silence, and Holmes took the chance to interject with a rather pronounced—to my ears, at least— lack of empathy for our client’s predicament. 

“All of that may be true to how you experience your emotions, my lord, but I have yet to see where my work comes into this.” 

The Lord snapped his head around to meet Holmes’ steady gaze, who was now seated in his chair in a more typical manner. 

“Our family’s misery is all to be attributed to that wretched woman he calls a wife,” he began again. If I did not know better of English nobility, I would have said the word ‘wife,’ had been spat across his teeth. “I know you are less… involved in the talk among the more bureaucratic circles, Mr. Holmes, so you may be unaware of how the Hamilton name has sat in many people’s mouths recently. There are… unsavoury rumours… about her behaviour. About the kind of impropriety she embarks in behind closed doors. The shame she brings about to our family name with these whispers alone cannot stand! And worst of it all, Thomas seems to be entirely unaware of the damage that is doing to our—to his—legacy. Perhaps, if my son was to know the disparity she could bring to us, to our name, to our work, he would have the decency to keep her away from polite society.”

The Earl took a breath in that moment, as if to take stock of the raw emotion flowing through his words. Such fervour ran through him, indicating to me just how invested he was in either protecting his son, or damning his daughter-in-law. By this point in the conversation, it appeared to lean toward the latter. He took a rather deep inhale, before continuing on with his statement.

“She has even incited him to hold these blasted salons in their home, during which Thomas reads from books she has placed in his grasp, lecturing his fellow man on dangerous, foolish ideals she has undoubtedly drilled into him. She is _using_ my son and destroying my family, Mr. Holmes. I ask that you find… more concrete evidence of her affairs. Prove to Thomas that this woman cannot be given such a loose leash upon the world. My very livelihood may be at stake for it.”

As our prospective client concluded his account, my friend beside me took a deep inhale, taking in every word. It would be a falsehood to state that the intense delicacy of this case did not intrigue me. Equal in its intrigue, however, was its danger. This man was affirmed in his belief that his daughter-in-law was being adulterous, or otherwise indecent, and if I know anything of Sherlock Holmes, such a bold statement of certainty was going to be met with inquiring questions.

“Lord Ashbourne,” Holmes spoke after a breadth of silence had spread across the parlour. “My business is not one of a mercenary, or a social assassin. I am interested, with exclusion, in the truth. If your wish in hiring me is to bring an ill name upon your son’s wife, then I must deny your request in earnest. If you are able to provide me some evidence of validity toward your inclination, I would be happy to be informed of such. If not, I must ask that you leave.”

I have known my friend for nearly two decades now, and such an interaction—especially one with nobility—was unprecedented. Something in his mind was directing him to distrust this man beyond his typical disdain for aristocracy. I glanced over at the Earl, only to see a bewildered expression across his face. It remained for a moment, before fading into determination. 

“Quite right. You are a detective after all, I should have known better than to assume rumour was enough to incite your interest.” Lord Ashbourne reached into his inner coat pocket to retrieve what appeared to be an envelope. “This is a letter from one of her… paramours. It even has a name attached.”

He offered the letter to Holmes for further inspection, and I resisted the temptation to examine it myself. Enough impropriety had occurred in the previous moments, so I elected to return to my notes in the interim. A moment passed, and Holmes folded the letter back into its envelope, placing it in his own breast pocket.

“Do you have any inclinations as to who the James in this letter may be, Lord Ashbourne?” Holmes asked in a far gentler tone to the one used before. 

“Unfortunate as it may be, yes. One Lieutenant James McGraw. He works as my son’s advisor and liaison in his recent political escapade, and has been nothing but inflammatory in his beliefs and behaviour since the moment I made his acquaintance. I am certain he is the one aiding in the destruction of my family, Mr. Holmes, all I am in need of now is more evidence.”

My friend contemplated the request, and thought I am unsure if it was boredom or genuine intrigue that brought him to it, he nodded in approval. 

“I shall look into your… dilemma, Lord Ashbourne. The letter will stay in my care, safe from any indiscreet eyes. Think of it as my favour to Her Majesty’s nobles,” he smiled. Had I not known him as well as I do, I may have taken it as genuine. Perhaps, that is why a returning grin spread across the Earl’s face. There was something rather unpleasant about this grin, it left me feeling perturbed. 

“Excellent! I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes,” he replied, standing with fervour. For the first time since the Earl’s arrival, Holmes stood to shake his hand. 

“I will contact you within the fortnight with my findings,” Holmes affirmed in confidence. I stood to regard our guest again, leading him toward the door. 

“My family will owe you handsomely for your aide. Good day, gentlemen.” 

As the door closed behind him, I turned to look at my companion in search for some clarification.

“Holmes, what in the world was that?”

“To what, my dear Watson, do you refer? I was being nothing if not cordial with our guest,” he deflected, but a knowing grin spread across his cheek. I ignored the familiar, glimmering eyes sent my way in favour of engaging my curiosity.

“Are you being intentionally obtuse with me, or has all your previous comprehension of propriety left you in the night?” I did not wish to start a quarrel with him, and my tone was calm, but my nerves throughout their interaction could not be mended. 

“Why should I bother to revere what is proper if he cannot think to address his own son with respect?” 

Holmes’ reply rattled me where I stood. My friend was direct in his communication, and firm in his morals, but never before this time had I seen him so objectionable with a potential client. 

“I cannot claim I… enjoyed his company more than is true, Holmes, but to display as you did before a Peer of the Realm so soon after your return to your career; it is reckless.” Something harsh tinged within the core of my chest in that moment. It was not an unfamiliar feeling around my companion, and yet such an emotion brought me distress all the same. My composure remained, however, and Holmes smoothly continued our discussion. I did my best to follow his thought, pretending as if no change within me had occurred. 

“Does my nature toward him hold significance, given his state upon leaving our rooms? He appeared rather delighted upon my acceptance of the case.”

“That fact only motivates me to ask more questions. What about that letter gave you such a radical change of heart?”

“Read for yourself, Watson. Tell me what you see,” he retorted, flashing a sharp smile as he handed me the offending article. The envelope was unmarked and unremarkable, save for the name _Hamilton_ in elegant cursive on its cover.

It read:

_My truest love_

_It is odd to wake in the morning and not see the daylight in your eyes. I have grown so accustomed to the gentle touch of your skin, to the way you rest in my embrace that as I now find myself without them, I am adrift._

_The sea is ever so restless, as is my heart when I am far from you; for I am ready to conjure up the fiercest storm as long as it promises to spit me out back at your feet. And I will worship you, my love, and I will beg for your forgiveness for every second that I have spent far from you. I shall whisper my love into the breeze and it will carry to your window, it will tangle in your hair and I shall kiss it back into your skin as soon as I am able._

_Until then, I remain,_

_Yours with eternal devotion and love_  
 _ &c &c _ _  
_James

This was not a letter tinged with lust or guilt in the manner with which many such correspondences tend to be. On the contrary, it was written as if it were the romantic musings of a husband at sea, a modern Odysseus, patient yet yearning, on the long voyage home to his Penelope. And yet, something within its lines felt private in nature. Confined within a limitation—the affair, I would wager. The same part of me that ached moments ago was stinging me again, and I had no choice but to tear my eyes from the page before any signifier of such lined my expression. 

“It appears more romantic in its style than other letters between affairing lovers often are in my experience. Other than that, I cannot speak to what holds value here, aside from concrete proof of Lady Hamilton’s affair,” I recorded. The true weight of my reaction was held under a locked safe within my mind. I prayed that my friend could not find the key to it. 

“Difference of prose alone is not what lies within this letter, Watson! Although, it is true what you say. No, I am far more concerned about what words remain absent than what words are present.”

I cannot pretend I didn’t know what Holmes was referring to. Of course, the unspoken words between lines were familiar to me, however he could not know of such things. 

“What absent phrases sparked your interest?” I hoped he could not read the battle behind my eyes, or the resistance in my heart. 

“I believe, my dear doctor, that it is best to show you rather than to tell you. Are you otherwise engaged this evening?” A chipper tone lined his words in such a way that I could feel his excitement. I could not claim to understand it, but it caused equal parts joy and concern within me. What about this case of affairs within aristocracy could bring about such elation from my friend?

“I cannot say I am, Holmes. What is it that you are planning?”

“If my memory does not deceive, in order to attend one of Lord and Lady Hamilton’s famed salons, one must acquire a personal invitation. I would be a fool not to obtain one for ourselves!” He opened our parlour entrance to make his way out. “Return to Baker Street by half seven, Watson, and we shall have our first meeting with this couple we have heard so much about.”

“How were you aware of my intent to leave Baker Street?”

“Was I to believe you would wear your new summer suit solely to spend the afternoon upon our chaise lounge?”

And, with that, Holmes departed from our rooms, presumably to receive more information about Lord and Lady Hamilton. My friend was not incorrect in his assertion. I had somewhere to be for a luncheon, and no intention of being late. 

* * *

The location in question for this meal was a modest tea room in Central London, and sitting at one of the comfortable booths was none other than my dear wife, Mary.

“Ah, John, dearest,” she greeted, standing to kiss my cheek. I returned the gesture in kind. “Lovely for you to come, I know it was rather late notice. I hope I did not interrupt your work with Holmes at all?”

“It’s my pleasure, my dear. Thankfully, Holmes is out for the afternoon in search for information on our most recent case.” I arranged myself at the booth as Mary gestured to the attention of waitstaff, fetching me a late morning brandy. 

“Oh, a case! Holmes must be rather pleased. Tell me, what does it concern?” Excitement emanated from my wife, a bright smile shone across her lips. 

“I cannot disclose the involvement, as this matter is much too sensitive for the time being. However, I assure you it is of great social importance,” I stated, hoping my typical implicit way of speech with her continued to be effective.

“Ah, yes, of course, of course. Well, I wished to see you all the same, even if you cannot regale me with new engagements at Baker Street.”

“Was there a specific purpose to our meeting today? Could we not have had pleasant conversation within our own home?”

“I do wish you would allow me some decadence from time to time, John. There need not be an occasion for a husband and wife to have an afternoon lunch together!”

Her somewhat performative bravado warmed my heart as it never failed to do, and I permitted a smile to emerge from me in reply.

“Quite right, quite right. Your passion today indicates some importance, however. Am I wrong in saying so?”

“Perhaps not, no,” she beamed. “I have made a new friend, you see, during my visit to the Harringtons’ newest art exhibition last week. She is positively brilliant, John, easily the most fascinating woman I have ever met. I can’t wait for you to meet her!”

It was then that I began to understand why it was that my wife had asked for us to meet at the tea rooms, rather than our home. My realisation was allowed to mingle for mere moments, though, as my wife stood to greet the third party, approaching the table with an easy, elegant step. By default response, I stood to greet her as well. The lady that approached us had dark chestnut hair, fashioned intricately with jewellery, and an extensive patterned gown with matching gloves. Her face was kind and bright, a grin upon it that could make anyone feel understood, and the sharp, intelligent look in her eyes was eerily reminiscent of the one I so often met when I looked at Holmes’ face. She extended her degloved hand to me, and I pressed my lips to her knuckles.

“Lady Miranda Hamilton," she said in a pleasant, clear voice. "It is a pleasure to meet you Dr. Watson.”


	2. II

The name upon her lips— _Lady Miranda Hamilton_ —recently heard from our powerful client, rang a garrish bell of recognition in my mind. This fascinating woman before me was none other than Lord Thomas Hamilton’s wife, the Lady Holmes and myself were to be investigating for her sordid affair. I dared not to indicate as such with my words, nor my expression, for it could jeopardise Holmes’ work before it had even begun. I could feel uncomfortable warmth creep on the back of my neck, thinking of the letter that the Earl of Ashbourne had shown us—it felt distinctly improper to be so familiar with a stranger’s private passion in such a way.

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Hamilton,” I managed, returning the affirmative look between us. 

“Do have a seat, Miranda, if you please,” Mary chimed in. Lady Hamilton gave her order of—a cup of Darjeeling—to the tea room waiter, and joined us at our table, removing her gloves.

“I must say, Dr. Watson, your escapades with Sherlock Holmes were always a favourite of mine. While I am sorry to no longer see the stories within the pages of the Strand, I am ever so grateful for his return to London.” Lady Hamilton spoke with such an ease, as if the words themselves were hand-crafted for each interaction; the very soul of the person she spoke to seemed to always be considered foremost. 

That being true, the mention of Holmes’ absence formed a sore physical reminder in my chest for a breath of a moment. I was grateful that she did not inquire further about such a painful time in my life. 

“Yes, he is quite attached to this city now, it seems. Our work continues, much the same as before, nonetheless,” I replied. I wished not to imply our slowed business to the Lady, so as to avoid any suggestion that a new case could be of enough significance to discuss. 

“Ah, well, I am rather glad his return has been joyous. My husband and I are avid readers of your stories and have been through them all at least half a dozen times now. So, should you ever feel so inclined to return to the serials, count two votes in their favour,” she spoke with a casualty so rare in those of her social stature. Had I not been aware of her familial ties, I may have doubted her title. The tone of her speech was not unwelcome, however. 

“I have been so lucky as to hear of some recent adventures my dear John has engaged with in recent months,” Mary said, taking my hand in hers over the table. ”Mr. Holmes has never failed to intrigue me with his skills, although I do not wish to speak of a man in his absence.”

I saw this as a good opportunity to ask the foremost question in my mind. “On the matter of absences, where might Lord Hamilton be on this fine afternoon?” 

“My dearest Thomas is otherwise engaged today, involved in the planning of his next political venture.” There was something knowing and shrewd about Lady Hamilton’s smile, though I could not fathom what lay hidden behind it. “He does send his well wishes, of course, Mary.” 

Whilst I did not intend to be gathering clues throughout this polite and pleasant luncheon, any studying of her words could not be helped. Working with Holmes had altered the nature of my mind during a case. Perhaps, Lady Hamilton’s separation from her husband in casual social engagements was a sign toward proving the Earl’s inclinations. Though, when speaking of the Lord, Lady Hamilton did not show signs of discomfort or wariness; on the contrary, her tone took on a warm tinge, and she smiled at the mention of his name with great, obvious affection. I felt amoral, hiding these observations from my wife. My trust for her was firm in its standing, and it was plausible that her connection to Lady Hamilton may aid in our investigation. All the same, concerning myself with such discussion was nothing but hypothetical at the moment. 

“We simply must have you and the Lord for dinner, Miranda. If what I have heard about him is any indication to his conversation or intellect, I am certain John would adore his company.”

“Dinner does sound lovely, Mary– perhaps not tonight as Thomas and I are hosting a get together with some friends and colleagues of his. The both of you are, of course, more than welcome to attend, if you are able.” A glance between Lady Hamilton and my wife flickered before me, then vanished, swift as it arrived. I had seen such a look from my wife toward other friends of hers in the past; knowing, warm, intimate. In most circumstances, such an expression would bring peace to my mind. However, I knew information about the life of Lady Hamilton that I doubted my wife to be privy to. Enough knowledge that my typical contented state around my wife’s friendly affection was replaced with a wariness I did not enjoy.

“Why, of course! John, you must come. Lord Hamilton is a font of modern thought, much like Holmes,” Mary implored, looking back to me. The previous sentence from her lips held a weight to it, meant for my ears alone to comprehend. In another circumstance, I may have been more intrigued with the implication, but all my mind could manage was to think of Holmes. What he must be doing to obtain this invitation, what persona he may have adorned to do so. Was I to attend this salon as a friend, or as an outsider? At the moment, I was unsure which of the two was superior. 

“Tonight, you say? And what time might be best that we arrive?” I turned to meet Lady Hamilton’s gaze as I accepted her invitation, and she beamed in return. 

“Eight o’clock, the Hamilton estate on Palace Street. We would be elated to host your company, Dr. Watson—and if your esteemed friend is free, it would be an honour to meet him as well.” 

We maintained polite conversation for the remainder of our meal. Mary’s estimation of our companion was, as it so often is, quite astute—Lady Hamilton was rather a remarkable woman. There was no doubt as to her intelligence and the strength of her character, yet it did not feel intimidating or wicked. Try as I might, I was struggling to see her as the scheming, adulterous she-demon that Alfred Hamilton had so vividly painted for Holmes and I. 

As I had some time allotted before I was to rendezvous with Holmes, Mary and I elected to walk through Hyde Park to enjoy the summer air. 

“Is your mind at ease, my dearest?” Mary inquired of me. She always could see into the depths of my thoughts, even in moments I wished for privacy. I could not lie to her, after all. 

“I am unable to be dishonest with you, as you know, Mary. The case with which Holmes and I have begun to pursue requires delicacy I am comfortable with providing. In detection work, matters of social sensitivity or of familial despair are common. This one, however, appears to impact my personal investments as well as our client’s, and I cannot seem to remove myself—as I have in the past—from it.”

A concern lined the face of my caring wife, and her grip upon my arm tightened. She stole me away onto a secluded bench within the park, and turned to face me.

“John, my love, you must know I hold your comfort above many things in life. I assure you, if you relay to me your concerns in confidence, they will remain safe in my heart.” I knew her words held truth, and perhaps the intensity of the events today were clouding my better judgment that urged me to keep our case confidential. Something in the far reaches of my mind determined this was not a simple case of carelessness, however. With her knowledge of Lady Miranda Hamilton, Mary could certainly be of help in untangling this complicated knot. Besides—short of Sherlock Holmes—there was no one I trusted more in this world than my wife.

I relayed what little information of the Hamilton affair I knew to Mary, in the hush of the tree cover and ambience of Hyde Park. In honesty, reliving the events by way of description alone gave me a new perspective to the start of my day. How odd the interaction between the Earl and Holmes was, the nature of the letter Holmes found so fascinating. The expression on Mary’s face changed as my story came to a conclusion.

“John…” she began, hesitation in her tone. What could she have gathered from this case that I could not find without additional context? “I fear this case may be too dangerous for Holmes to involve himself in. What I know of the Hamiltons alone, what is spoken of behind closed doors and drawn curtains… You are much too close to these affairs for my comfort. You must tell Holmes you cannot participate in this case.”

What my wife referred to in the hush of the park, was not unknown to me. Our own marriage was one of unspoken words and hidden truths we so often worked to protect. Alone, we were two lost members of London’s populace, the slightest shift in behaviour, the smallest misstep, able to destroy our lives with the rumours born of it. Therefore, I maintained her image within society, and she offered me the same courtesy. If the Hamiltons had a similar arrangement within their marriage—though perhaps one not as damning as ours—a case of their scandal could prove disastrous for us both, indeed.

Her insistence on the matter brought me discomfort. If this case was too dangerous for my own participation, how was I to explain to Holmes the reasoning of such a thing? To show my disinterest now may implicate me with more attachment to the case than is true. My mind returns to the contents of the letter, of what Holmes said of words unspoken. Does he know more of this potential scandal than he allowed me to understand?

“If I tell Holmes I must rescind my involvement, I cannot confirm he will not be able to discover the true reason,” I replied. A knowing, pained nod from my wife followed. “Besides, with your knowledge of the Hamiltons’ personal lives, and Holmes’ detection abilities, perhaps we can work this in our favour.”

A contemplative look fell upon Mary’s face, as if planning one of her clever schemes she so often employed. 

“Allow me to help with this case, and perhaps my assistance can transform this matter into one for my new friend’s benefit,” she requested. “For I am disinclined to believe the Earl of Ashbourne’s assessment of her. Miranda, for as long as I have known her, has struck me to be kind, honest and true to her core. She has mentioned this man who you allege her to be in affairs with—James, did you say?—but not in any way I would consider improper. He is her husband’s colleague and, as far as I can tell, spends most of his time by Lord Hamilton’s side. If my involvement would be of help clearing Miranda’s name as it is, John, then I will stop at nothing to do so.”

Though, it was less a request, more so an affirmation of what must be done. I knew her aid was the best method here. 

“Yes, I feel that is what is wisest now,” I confirmed. “Holmes is out as we speak, in search of an invitation he already possesses. Perhaps, in the interim, we should prepare for our evening plans.”

Mary smiled at me, despite the clear unease in her eyes. Her anxiety perturbed me greatly. My wife is not a woman to fear for no good reason, and few things from our shared past have caused this particular look to appear on her face. I have endured the height of wartime, the peril of villainous criminals, the thrill of uncovering the means to a most convoluted conflict. And yet, in this very moment, the Hamilton affair felt more dangerous, more personal, than all fear I had experienced before. I grasped Mary’s hand in my own, a small attempt to assuage the disquieting feeling coursing between the both of us. 

* * *

Mary and I reached Baker Street minutes before the time Holmes requested, to find the man himself lounged upon the sofa, eyes glued to his rather unspectacular ceiling. As we entered the parlour, Holmes did not change his positioning to greet or otherwise indicate to us his awareness of our presence. 

“Holmes, hello! Mary has garnered us an invitation to the Hamilton salon this evening,” I informed, enthusiasm flowing through my voice. I expected my words to arouse him from his study, but there was no stirring visible in my friend’s form. “Was your afternoon successful?”

“Not as successful as yours, it seems,” he responded, a flash of harshness lining his features, before fading again. “Good day, Mrs. Watson. Pleasure to see you, even if I do not appear to be in the highest of spirits,” he said to my wife, nodding his head in her direction. He turned his gaze back toward me then, his eyes pointed and intentional as ever.

“I would claim to be surprised by your inability to maintain secrecy in our client’s issue, Watson, but that would be a fool's errand indeed.” He spoke as if he had reached acceptance of the matter hours prior. I could not gather if his words came from frustration, or applause for my efforts. He rose from the cushions in a slow, languid movement before offering his formal greetings to my wife. 

“I implore you not to misread my tone for hostility, madam. Your assistance in the matter and your existing knowledge of the Hamiltons is quite welcomed, I assure you.”

“Thank you for the invitation of assistance, Mr. Holmes. I take it you have wisdom as to my connection to the matter?” Mary chided. She always gained such joy from engaging Holmes’ mind, just as I did. Any unease I saw in her just hours before was now replaced with a thrill for adventure that Holmes so often awakened within the both of us. 

“Indeed, I have.” I spotted a glint of something jovial in his eye. 

“Holmes, what was it that you discovered this afternoon?” I enquired, uncertain of the information my friend held in his grasp, and impatient for the unveiling of it.

“I believe, my dear Watson, much the same knowledge you acquired during your luncheon,” he detailed, a sly expression forming as ornamentation to the words he spoke. I could not share his playful nature, however, as dread shot through my soul at the thought of Holmes discovering just how close to my personal anguish this case now lay. He began to explain before I could formulate any sort of response. “Lady Hamilton attended the same art exhibition as your dear wife just this last week. I employed one of the Baker Street Irregulars—as they elected to refer to themselves—to find that piece of information. As I know the both of you to be rather unburdened by the need for public luncheons on a Friday afternoon, I gathered that she was to introduce you to a new acquaintance. Perhaps, one of high social stature, who shares her interest in the arts. To be truthful to you both, I spent little to no time outside Baker Street this afternoon, a mere half of an hour to receive confirmation of my suspicion.”

I could do little to help the aghast reaction across my face at Holmes’ words. A decade with this man at my side, and still his ability to stay one step ahead of me drew my unending attention. I glanced over at Mary to see a knowing smirk upon her, mirroring the look Holmes offered me just a moment before. 

“It seems Mary and myself did more of the detection today than you have, Holmes.”

“Perhaps so, but this is no matter. The true work begins at the salon, which we shall be tardy to if we do not descend the steps to the cab waiting for us outside.” With that, Holmes reached for his best top hat and previously discarded jacket before gesturing for Mary and myself to exit. 

Once inside the hansom, Mary inquired further of the nature of this case. The three of us traversing to a high society affair led me to reminisce of when Holmes and I made Mary’s acquaintance at first; a client in need of assistance in discovering the mystery of her inheritance. Many years had passed since then, and yet it never ceased to bring me joy at the thought. Now, the nostalgia of a past case may be little more than a justification for my mind to escape the fear of what was to come next. 

“You say one of your Irregulars gave you confirmation of Lady Hamiltons’ presence at the exhibition, yet that is hardly enough information for you to know of my new friendship with her. How did you manage to gain such intel, in truth, Mr. Holmes?” I must admit, I was equally curious about this matter. Holmes appeared to be behaving in a manner I had not seen in years; cryptic wording, high spirited movements. It was not an unwelcome change to his previous blue moods from inactivity, yet I couldn’t help but feel displaced by it. 

“My knowledge of the inner workings of the aristocracy have done little but increase since my time away, Mrs. Watson. Their behaviours are unlike those of common society; the more minute, the more significant. If one can understand said minutiae, he can uncover anything.”

Somehow, every word from Holmes worsened the fear bubbling within me. If my wife shared this concern, it was unreadable on her face. The terror swirled around my heart like a viper, ready to strike at any moment. If what Holmes said was true, the journey to the Hamilton estate was, undoubtedly, a doomed one. 

Within the half hour, we arrived at the elegant home of Lord and Lady Hamilton, nestled in the heart of St. James. The outside of the home was immaculate, adorned in sculpted marble and intricate masonry. We were greeted, among a small group of guests, by Lady Hamilton herself, beside a butler. Had I not met her just hours previous, I would have been more taken aback by the informality, but any disturbed emotion I may have felt was replaced with the same lingering dread. 

“Welcome, everyone, to our home. Please, do follow me into our parlour. Mr. Woods will be happy to take your hats and coats,” the Lady addressed with spirit and tenacity. 

As we entered the lavish home, Lady Hamilton welcomed each guest individually, engaging them with an understanding smile and interested conversation. I was beginning to believe that her kindness and empathetic manner of speech was no act—as it was with many other members of the noble classes—but rather her natural state of being. It once again cast doubt upon the image that the Earl had so viciously portrayed of her.

“Mr. and Mrs. Watson, so wonderful for you to come! If I am not mistaken, you must be the famed Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” I bowed my head before her in salutation as she offered her gloved hand to Holmes. He took it in kind, with a smile to match it. The difference in his introduction here as opposed to the one I witnessed this morning took me by the smallest alarm, before I recognised it to be a layer of disguise Holmes so often adorned himself with. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Hamilton.”

“I hope the good doctor has mentioned that Thomas and I are ardent admirers of your work, Mr. Holmes. I am ever so grateful and honoured to have your presence here this evening.” Mr. Woods, the butler, took our hats, along with Mary’s shawl. The remainder of the party had gathered within the entryway. 

“Ah, my dear biographer here embellishes of his own accord. However, if you are ever in need of my professional capacities, do not hesitate to knock upon Baker Street’s door.” 

“But of course! Now, come along with me. Thomas is rather occupied with discussing John Ruskin’s latest. It is to be an autobiography, from what I hear—a rather disappointing development in his work, if you ask me. Come, come. He will be ever so delighted to meet you all.”

With that, the four of us made our way to the epicentre of tonight’s festivities. Chairs arranged in a hemisphere around the fireplace within a large, immaculately decorated parlour room. Beside the fire were three chairs facing the others, two of them filled as one waited for the Lady. 

Within the occupied seats at the head of this event were two men. One with long, auburn hair—neatly gathered in a queue—a firm, determined jaw, and clad in what was unmistakably a Royal Navy Lieutenant’s uniform. Even as he was seated, his back was as straight as a bow, a habit I had only seen in other men with a military background. In the fire-lit parlour, I could see the bright green eyes under a somewhat furrowed brow. If my knowledge did not betray me, I assumed this to be none other than Lieutenant James McGraw, the very man who Lady Hamilton had taken into her bed. It surprised me to see him here—for would this not be much like a murderer returning to the scene of the crime?—but for all his rigid discipline, McGraw did not appear uncomfortable or out of place. Quite the contrary, he looked rather at home in the Hamiltons’ residence, and at Lord Hamilton’s side. While I could not readily discern much from his stern expression alone, the letter read in Baker Street earlier that day lingered in my mind. Much of the same embarrassment I felt upon meeting Lady Hamilton returned to me, feeling as though I was intruding into a world of private passions I should not have been privy to. It astounded me how this stern-looking, sea-hardened man could have penned the poetic words of devotion that Holmes and myself had read just this morning.

Therefore, the man beside him—with short, blond hair, calm disposition, and a warm smile—had to be Lord Thomas Hamilton. There was a poise about him unlike that of his father, such that one was not required to assume who led the readings and discussions we were to embark on. His command did not come from any intimidation or aggression, however. Instead, he held the room with the same gentle persuasion and powerful presence that I had noticed in his wife. The both of them seemed capable of understanding and respecting any individual they came into contact with, all whilst consuming no effort on their part. As if caring for others came with an ease akin to breathing. There was an unspeakable charisma about the man, ready to draw in even the most skeptical of observers. I could feel myself enchanted already, waiting to hear what he would say.

Mary, Holmes, and myself sat upon three empty chairs to the Lieutenant’s left, as Lady Hamilton reached her throne-like seat at the hearth. There was easy chatter filling the room and a servant immediately materialised at our elbows with glasses of wine. I focused my hearing on Lord Hamilton’s pleasant, cheerful tone.

“... but my dearest Philpott, I simply cannot find it in myself to agree with you,” he was saying with a gentle smile that did not at all suggest malice in his disagreement. “I, too, enjoyed Ruskin’s thoughts on Byron and Wordsworth—and in fact, as James here would readily attest, I was one of the select few to even find his work on industrialisation and weather patterns rather gripping indeed—but I do believe that _Praeterita_ shall be the crown jewel in his ever so varied body of work. For I am certain that the great philosopher is now approaching the sunset of his life, and it is natural for a man in such a position to wish to share the parts of his life that he deems made it worth living. I do so doubt that it is a work fuelled by ego, for is this not the man who wrote that ‘pride is at the bottom of all great mistakes?’ There are other reasons, dear fellow, why one would wish to turn to biographical writing in life.” 

The man Lord Hamilton was talking to seemed enthralled with his words and, I would wager, had promptly forgotten why he had decided to counter him in the first place. This, I surmised, was perhaps something rather common in the act of disagreeing with the man. Lord Hamilton smiled with grace and looked at our group, aware of our arrival from the very moment we had walked into his parlour. The smile did not leave his face.

“And—what joy, indeed! For we have a real-life biographer in our midst tonight.” Several heads turned our way as Lord Hamilton rose to his feet and reached for Holmes’ hand in a firm handshake. McGraw stayed seated, however his sharp, discerning gaze remained fixed on us. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I cannot express just how flattered I am to make your acquaintance. And of course, the lovely Mrs. Watson. Miranda has spoken of you so very often.” The Lord’s blue eyes returned on me, bright with fire or wine, I could not tell. I accepted the obligatory gesture in kind before he continued to speak. “I was saying, Doctor Watson, that biographical writing is rarely just an expression of one’s ego but—one does hope—has rather loftier goals. Would you not agree?” A playful look came over the Lord’s face and the corner of his mouth curved into a knowing smile. “For I doubt, in all sincerity, that you publish your rather excellent stories in The Strand under the sole pretense of waxing poetic about your esteemed colleague’s intelligence and skill. But, do correct me if I am mistaken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find both authors (phoenix and toni) on social media:
> 
> tumblr (phoenix): @beholdingransom (main) or @dandyholmes (holmes)
> 
> twitter: @blahaj_haver (toni) @thegearsystem (phoenix)


	3. III

The forward manner with which Lord Thomas Hamilton spoke took me by surprise, yet I felt compelled to respond all the same. Did he intend to imply my selfish intentions behind publishing Holmes’ and my cases? Or was I reading a truth behind his words that did not exist? Perhaps the agony in my heart was jumping to unnecessary conclusions. Despite his kind demeanour and gentle disposition, I felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of this man’s knowing eyes.

“It is… an honour to meet you, Lord Hamilton,” I forced out in an attempt to acknowledge my status in the matter. To contradict someone so above me in the hierarchy of London would not be solely foolish, but detrimental. And yet, something in his demeanour—the charming smirk, the dramatic greeting—told me that such contrary words would be welcome. As if his title, his family name, and his position were little but a facade, beneath which lay a man attuned with the life and humour of a common man such as myself. I dared not test my theory in that moment, however. Not with the dozen sets of eyes upon me, scrutinising my every move; including that of Holmes, Lieutenant McGraw, Lady Hamilton, and Mary. 

The Lord waved a hand. “Please. We do not stand on ceremony in this house. Do call me Thomas. Lord Hamilton is my father, and the title does make me feel rather beyond my age.” I did not miss the sharp sour tone of his voice when he mentioned his father, however the shadow of it was gone as soon as it had appeared. “And there is no need to be bashful, Dr. Watson! I assure you, there are no strident minds within these walls tonight. We hold these gatherings so that voices can roam free without the yoke of shame on their shoulders.” The casual informality of his words gave the impression that the remarks he had made regarding my chronicling habits now held little weight in his mind. He spoke as though every new thought was of equal significance to the one before. 

Holmes, Lord Hamilton—or rather, Thomas—and I returned to our seats, an indication of a true start to the evening. On a superior day, Thomas’ musings of Ruskin and Byron may have compelled my attention more so. However, after the events of the morning and afternoon, my soul was in a state quite unfit for such detached contemplation. As I could tell Holmes was carefully observing the young Lord, I elected to focus my attention on the Navy Lieutenant of few words, brooding yet attentive in Thomas’ shadow. I saw much of my past self in his stance; the hardened officer with a role to fulfill. 

What became all the more apparent in my squinting glimpses toward the man, was just how similar I felt him to be to my present self. There is a small breadth of what I can discern from looking at someone’s wordless form across the way, yet the truth of the matter was that I knew many of that man’s innermost emotions. As great as my wish was to eradicate the message from my memory, it could not be achieved. Rather, I knew of McGraw’s romantic yearnings sent across the Atlantic, and the more I examined him, the greater my understanding of how he could be capable of such sentiments grew. For there was a deep intensity to him, something in the twitch of his brow and the curl of his mouth that spoke of deep currents of emotion hidden beneath the surface.

Around ten o’clock, many of the guests began to depart from the Hamilton estate, concluding their final thoughts on Thomas’ readings as they walked out the door. He would engage them until the very moment they passed through the threshold, sometimes after. Lady Hamilton was immersed in a discussion with my Mary, as Holmes sauntered around the back of the parlour. Lieutenant McGraw, now standing, maintained his post at the hearth, though I could swear I caught him peering toward the foyer from time to time, cautious of Thomas’ every move. I elected to occupy myself with my friend before attempting an introduction with the officer. 

“Well, Holmes, what do you make of the room? You have spent quite some time pondering it now.” I spoke in jest, but the question was genuine. 

“This evening appears to be full of intriguing points, Watson. Our hosts are rather as our client described, and yet the atmosphere tonight lacks the animosity and wickedness I was led to expect. The Earl referred to the young Lord as stubborn and foolhardy, as you may remember, and while I can see how that assessment may be true of him—much in a way that can be true of myself—I fail to see him use it in any malicious way. I admit, while I find his views on Poplarism rather lacking, he is clearly an intelligent man and does not strike me as one to be deceived easily.” He spoke in a hush to me, to keep our discussion covert in nature. I stole a look toward McGraw, whose stare met my own as I nodded in affirmation of Holmes’ words. I was left with the uncomfortable feeling that, although Holmes and I were a good distance away from him and our voices were hushed, he could hear every word we were saying. 

“I have reached rather the same conclusion. My introduction to the Lady this afternoon indicated her nature to be little but a devoted wife, unconventional as she may be,” I replied. Despite my despair at my circumstances within this case, it was refreshing to be able to provide equal input with Holmes. It was not uncommon for me to provide assistance in our work, though I felt that Holmes was giving me a more significant grip upon the Hamilton affair than others in the past. 

“There is something beneath the surface of this case, Watson. Something I cannot place. It is unclear quite how sinister the layers may be.”

My well known dismay replaced the previous excitement with vengeance at Holmes’ voice. I did not doubt my friend’s abilities, and if his past performances in detection spoke to the current job, it would not be long before he discovered the true nature of things in this house. I thought of Mary, of her new friendship with the Lady that is blossoming just across the room. More so, however, I thought of Thomas Hamilton, and the rigid Lieutenant keeping a well trained eye upon his enthusiastic Lord. Perhaps, I saw such a resemblance between McGraw and myself for more intimate reasons than our military attachments or duty to a more Bohemian colleague. Perhaps, the knowing glances my wife shared with me in the tea room earlier today were not unwarranted in their presence. I could not allow my mind to wander to such absurd possibilities for long however; too dangerous in their nature to suggest on a whim.

I elected to establish a more solid understanding of the Lieutenant, beyond the stolen glances of a detective’s biographer. I excused myself from Holmes’ side, and strolled toward McGraw in earnest. 

“I don’t believe I have introduced myself to you properly, Lieutenant. I am Doctor John Watson, retired assistant surgeon for Her Majesty’s Army. I have heard how Thomas referred to you, but perhaps it is best that you announce yourself,” I spoke, offering the brooding man my kindest air along with a hand to shake. 

The look in Lieutenant McGraw’s green eyes was sharp and discerning, his mouth curled in a barely concealed scowl. He did not return my gesture of kindness. “These salons may be an opportunity for you to rub shoulders with the bourgeoisie and seek for ways to feed the neverending London rumour mill, Doctor Watson, but I assure you I have little interest in either of these things. You know very well who I am, just as I know very well who you and your companion are. I am advising Lord Hamilton on an important political venture; I would be happy to discuss this work with you, however I doubt there is much else we could talk about.” 

While the surprise that overtook me at his words was not dissimilar to that brought by my introductions to our hosts, the cause of my astonishment now was quite separate. The grimace upon his lip removed any inclination I may have held toward our similarity, as I did not view myself to have quite the same venomous nature he displayed.

“I apologise if I have offended you in any way, Lieutenant. I assure you, my intentions lay solely in the interest of amicable conversing, not in the feeding of rumours.” The change in McGraw’s character was slight, but pronounced all the same. I could not tell if it indicated a disbelief in my words, or a disdain for any words shared at all. “I was interested in your thoughts on this evening’s discussions.”

McGraw’s eyebrow shot up as he continued observing me. If I did not know better, I would say there was something vaguely mocking in his expression. “You would like to hear my thoughts, Sir? Very well.” He looked above my shoulder to where one could just glance Thomas, conversing with several of his guests on their way out. The Lieutenant lowered his voice. “My thoughts are that many of these Eton-raised, Oxford-schooled men are only here so that they can boast to their fellow Eton-raised, Oxford-schooled friends that they rubbed shoulders with one Lord Thomas Hamilton, famous for his unconventional radical thinking. My thoughts are that Lord Lewis there,” he tilted his chin to gesture to a short, dark-haired man, who was looking up at Thomas with reverie, “who has been enthusiastically nodding along to Lord Hamilton’s readings of John Stewart Mill, will, come tomorrow, be the first to cast his lordly vote for yet another reduction of factory wages. My thoughts are also that Mr. Harcourt there,” another nod at another fairly unassuming man, “will be laughing at all our expense over his cricket game this Saturday, explaining to all who would listen how Lord Hamilton is an idealist, air-headed and coddled, who only lives a life possible in the great philosophical texts.” 

McGraw’s eyes returned to me, now with clear amusement in them, as if he too was playing a game that I was not quite privy to. “These are only a few of my thoughts, Doctor Watson, and they can be summarised thus. Men who come to these salons do so because they make them feel like radicals; yet, when confronted to actually act upon any of the radical ideas that Lord Hamilton discusses so passionately, they look the other way. Lord Hamilton believes that change is truly possible and that he can achieve it—myself, Lady Hamilton, and a select few others believe so as well. My job is to remind him that not many others share this belief and, in fact, would work against it. I wonder, which side will you and your companion find yourselves on?” There is a thinly veiled threat in his question: _will you be with us or against us?_

Perchance, I would have noticed Holmes walk up beside me had I not been so overcome with McGraw’s tone. As he entered my vision, however, another voice carried across the parlour.

“James, dearest, you simply must come hear of Mary’s account of the Harringtons’ new exhibition! The same one we went to see together, remember?” Lady Hamilton called out to the Lieutenant, as though attempting to cover what possible conversation we may have been engaging ourselves with in that moment. Lieutenant McGraw bade me goodbye with a curt nod and marched over to the woman he supposedly was in affairs with. I followed him with my eyes as he walked away, his back ever so ramrod-straight.

“My, Watson, you quite nearly caught yourself in the lion’s den,” Holmes murmured to my right, as if using my figure as a cover to hide behind, despite being taller in stature. 

“Lion indeed. And, I believe I may have had rather a lucky escape from those sharp claws, dear friend. Have you made any unique discoveries in my absence?” I asked, finally turning my gaze away from McGraw. “If not, I think I may have uncovered some truths of my own.”

“Do not hesitate to regale me with them back at Baker Street, my dear Watson.”

Holmes and I continued to walk about the parlour in relative silence, occasionally breaking from it for commentary on the decor, or the next guest to depart the estate. Before I knew it, our party was the last remaining in the room. A part of my mind attached to a sense of propriety—one I felt slipping as each second passed in the Hamilton home—quivered at the thought that we may be overstaying our welcome. However, I glanced to the threshold of the parlour to see Thomas return to the room, positively beaming at our maintained presence. Seeing Holmes and I along the perimeter must have drawn his attention, as he then made his way toward us with zeal.

“Gentlemen, I do hope you enjoyed your visit this evening. Miranda and I would love to have your company in a more modest setting in the future, if that suits you of course,” the young Lord expressed in earnest. Holmes’ expression was one of a studious nature, quite in contrast with our gracious host. 

“Rather lively discussion was had, indeed, Lord Hamilton,” Holmes responded, a warm look about him. His eyes held an ease they had lacked upon our arrival, and yet I swear I was able to see the cogs within his mind turn at every word from Thomas’ mouth. “I appreciated such freedom of dialogue; rather unlike the aristocratic events I have visited in the past.”

Thomas’ face appeared to brighten from the approval bestowed upon him. “I pride myself on providing a comfortable space to explore freedom of thought and expression within these walls, despite the disapproval it may garner from certain parties that are best to remain nameless. And, as I already made clear, Mr. Holmes, I do insist you call me Thomas. There is no need for such formalities between friends, which I hope we are now. Dr. Watson, was your evening well spent?”

“But, of course, L—Thomas! I cannot say I have witnessed such thrilling conversation from another soul, outside of my dear friend here. It was a pleasure to see young minds share as you do.” 

Pleasant dialogue was had between us, before my knowledge of respectable behaviour finally won out over my enjoyment of our new friends. I noticed that Lieutenant McGraw had at some point disappeared, though I did not remember seeing him leave with one of the groups beforehand, nor had Thomas left our company to bid him goodnight. I made a note of this fact, though I did not know if it was to turn out to be anything of import. I collected Mary from her station by the fire with Lady Hamilton, and the three of us departed from the Hamilton estate after exchanging hearty goodbyes and with fresh invitations to dinner the following week. The feeling of budding friendship with such fascinating individuals as the Hamiltons was very near to overcoming my anxieties of the case at hand. This did not appear to be something solved within the day, and I knew that my fear would do nothing but increase until the safety of the Hamiltons, as well as myself and Mary, was ensured. The sole question that remained, was how to do so without indicating more to Holmes than was decent. 

* * *

I returned to Baker Street the following morning to discuss my observations with Holmes. I was hopeful that my input would allow this case to conclude in a swift, willful manner on my friend’s accord, with no indication of my more personal motives. 

“Ah, Watson, thank you for arriving so promptly. I have much to discuss with you in the ways of the Earl of Ashbourne’s case.” Upon entry to the rooms, I found my friend perched upon his chair with an intense look about him; his gaze focused in on me, the thrill of a new day on the job shown in the shimmer in his eyes. I removed my hat and jacket, placing them upon the stand beside the door, before making my way to be seated across from my friend.

“What have you uncovered of the Hamilton affair, Holmes?” I was keen to hear of his thoughts and deductions before I presented my own.

Holmes steepled his fingers under his chin as he was often prone to do before laying out his findings. “I can agree that the casual way in which Lady Hamilton greeted us upon our arrival at the Hamilton estate did little to disprove the Earl’s indication of the unconventional nature of his daughter-in-law. What did strike me, however, was the demeanour of our hosts upon personal introduction. Thomas—as he insists we refer to him—was clearly not the pawn of his wife’s fantastical, villainous schemes as the Earl had so vividly described him as; quite the contrary. So quick in his wit and so very accurate and sharp in his rebuttals to his guests, one must doubt that such a man would easily fall to the ill will of anyone, much less a woman such as the Lady. Whilst he does strike me as rather naive in his convictions, particularly those pertaining to wider societal issues that he seems convinced he can solve with the power of discourse and enough glasses of wine, he is anything but a weak-willed individual. On the contrary, I believe he could be very powerful and destructive in his ire should one have reason to draw this upon themselves.

“Moreover, Lady Hamilton’s respectful tone and kind words painted a very different picture from the one presented by the Earl. I am sure you would agree, Watson, considering your experience of the luncheon yourself and Mary shared with her. The Lady’s words all appeared to be sourced from genuine emotion toward each individual she spoke with but none more so than her husband. I observed the several brief interactions between them, Watson. No phrase or affirmation from Lady Hamilton was out of place, no look or single word seemed to be filled with some nefarious purpose. Indeed, all I observed was a woman who held a great love and admiration for the young Lord. I have spent nearly two decades in the work of detection, my dear doctor, and consider myself rather skilled in the art of unveiling nefarious intent behind a welcoming face. For the life of me, I could not locate a manipulative soul beneath the eyes of Lady Hamilton. This can lead to some fascinating convictions indeed. Tell me, Watson, what did your interaction with Lieutenant McGraw reveal for you?”

As he concluded, Holmes reached for his favoured clay pipe upon the desk beside him, as well as the tobacco stores found in the drawer within. He packed his pipe with vigour, awaiting my reply. 

“I find your assessment of the Hamiltons to be rather accurate indeed, my dear friend. Regarding Lieutenant McGraw, I imagine his rather standoffish disposition is sourced from some anxiety around his position as Thomas’ advisor. Perhaps, he feels a need to prove himself among the ranks of bureaucracy that he otherwise would not engage with - I assume this may be because of a humble background or an unfortunate experience in the past. Yet, his anxieties are not present enough to disparage his ability to criticise or hold antipathy for many of Thomas’ colleagues. He is certainly a clever man, who says little however observes intently—very much like you, Holmes. He mentioned knowledge of rumours surrounding their home, which may lead me to believe he is aware of the whispers of his and Lady Hamilton’s affair. He did not seem in any way ashamed or defensive of such rumours, rather just angered by their very existence. Within the same breath, he readily defended Thomas, whilst having a simultaneous ambivalence toward his ideas themselves. He appeared less as an advisor to the couple, but a guard dog. Ready to bite down upon a potential threat at any moment. I fear that on this account, the Earl may have been quite correct—perhaps it is that McGraw is indeed the one with the nefarious purpose in this scenario.

“What conclusions may we reach from these observations, Holmes? Is McGraw truly just a standoffish official, or is he hiding something more nefarious? Shall I continue to pursue the proposed friendship with the Hamiltons that Mary has so initiated?” I attempted to maintain composure through my account, disregarding the oppressive emotion rattling within me. 

Holmes took a puff from his pipe before responding to me, his eyes hooded in contemplation. 

“Very astute observations on your behalf, Watson. Based on your account, I believe the next step in our plan must be to pursue an investigation into the very nature and purposes of Lieutenant McGraw. He would seem to hold a key to the chest with the answer to this mystery. While you were not stationed with the Navy yourself, would you happen to hold any contacts in veteran circles that could inform where Naval officers of his rank would spend leisure time?” 

I admit, I did maintain some acquaintances with military histories from my visits to the Criterion Bar, but few of those I spoke to were tied to the Navy, nevermind active officers. 

“I can inquire to some retired officers, although I cannot promise any certainty with such a venture.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Please do not hesitate to do so, and I will perform my due diligence to inquire within my own connections. In the matter of the budding friendship between yourself and your wife with the Hamiltons, I think the additional intel you may garner from a more intimate attachment to them will be of use to this case. Besides, it is quite rare for you to socialise as of late, Watson, it may be of benefit to you.”

I could not tell if Holmes’ comment came from a place of harsh implication, or genuine support. Knowing what I did of him, I imagined it was the latter, yet I appeared to be living my existence on edge in a manner I had not done in years. Every minor word out of place sparked terror in my heart, shattering my hopes at composure. I no longer felt to be a level-headed member of this detective partnership, and feelings such as that were unwelcome in work sensitive as this. 

“Quite right. I shall send wires to any contacts that may be able to provide useful information to us about Lieutenant McGraw’s whereabouts outside of the Hamilton estate.” 

“Excellent! Let us reconvene here, come evening, to bring about any new developments. Now, be gone, Watson, we have an adventure before us!”

Holmes leapt up from his chair to usher me out the door, a buzz about him that I had not seen in far too long before this case. In other circumstances, his joy would have reflected within me, his smile so often an instant source of calm in my soul. Yet, with every waking moment, I felt my friend reach closer to the truth behind these individuals; a truth I so feared to uncover myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter three! i hope you enjoyed, and leave a comment at the end if so!


	4. IV

Through my limited naval contacts, I was able to uncover a small list of potential public houses through London that any off-duty, retired, or high ranking naval officers may frequent. While it was not a clear confirmation of Lieutenant McGraw’s whereabouts on a night off, it could serve as a point of reference for which Holmes and I could explore. 

Holmes was not in Baker Street by the time of my return—around four—so I elected to occupy myself with notating some aspects of the case. Perhaps a detached, bulleted list of events would remove my feelings from the matter enough to prepare for the incognito work Holmes and I were about to embark upon.

Within the hour, the door of 221B creaked open to reveal the form of my friend before me. He was adorned in attire more formal than his own, a subtle disguise within his arsenal of otherworldly facades. 

“Watson, thank the Lord you are punctual as ever. Apologies for my tardiness, for I have made some novel discoveries indeed.” The conviction within him was focused, eager to divulge to my attentive ear. 

“Do not hesitate to apprise me with your findings, Holmes.”

“It was rather an eventful afternoon, you see,” he began, finding a seat in his chair as he buzzed with the energy of the day. “Given the political ventures of Thomas Hamilton within the offices of Whitehall, I gathered that a liaison of Lieutenant McGraw’s rank must have been provided accommodations around the area by the Royal Navy. I sent in an inquiry to the library for any housing records in the area with ties to the Navy, or any political figures tied to it, and discovered a list of possible lodging options within the neighbourhoods surrounding Parliament. After narrowing down the possibilities, with current tenant records, as well as the size needed for lodgings of a single man, I was able to discern where the Lieutenant resides.

“Yet, it appears he spends a majority of his time within the Hamilton estate, or the professional office at Whitehall. I concluded that, during midday on a Saturday, he would either be in his own lodgings, or with the Hamiltons. Locating the Lord and Lady is much simpler than finding a quiet Navy Lieutenant, so I enquired within my usual channels around St. James’s and Central London to unearth the couple’s whereabouts. 

“If my Irregulars prove correct—of which they rarely fail to do—Lord and Lady Hamilton have spent the afternoon at home. Any status on guests under their roof was more difficult to uncover, however the eyes I employed to keep watch upon the estate stated that the carriage remained in its parked position for the rest of the evening after our departure last night. With this information before me, I could do little but to conclude that McGraw did not return to his lodgings yesterday, and it appears he has yet to return to them still.” 

“Why Holmes, that now reminds me—on the evening of the salon at the Hamilton estate, I did not see McGraw leave. At the time I did not think much of it at all, assuming he must have made a quiet exit without bidding any of us goodbye but now your observations do leave me wondering whether he simply spent the night there. If you forgive my crudeness, I would assume that he did so in Lady Hamilton’s bedchamber.” As I spoke, the conclusion I related to Holmes was not one I had full faith in. I had been witness to the conversation between Mary and Lady Hamilton the previous day, and the implications of such were incongruent with my words to Holmes. Yet, stating such doubt was not possible. 

“Quite right, Watson. Intriguing as that alone may be, it does nothing to answer the question of where to find him tonight. I kept my eyes peeled upon his residence, not so foolish as to attempt a break-in, but enough to gather where the common gathering spots of other stationed officers may be. Those, like McGraw, tasked with the work of handling bureaucracy during the lull Her Majesty’s Navy has faced in recent years. Just a few streets from McGraw’s apartment, as well as the home of the Hamiltons, I located the Red Lion public house in St. James’s. Modest enough to not displace our humble Lieutenant, but frequented by enough of those alike him in a professional manner. So, that is our destination this evening, Watson. Are you amenable to join me?”

As I had begun to take note of Holmes’ account, I reached a point of stopping before answering his question.

“Of course, my dear Holmes, I could not fathom missing such a crucial study in this case!” I prayed that some of my genuine enthusiasm for working alongside Holmes won out over the fearsome nature of what lay beyond this night. 

“Excellent! In the interim, we have little to do but study the lives of those we have been recently acquainted with.”

And we did just that for much of the early evening, awaiting the sunset with a tension in the air. It was a joyous thing, to see my friend so motivated by the work that brought us together. A vigour ran within him, a fire roared behind his eyes, and some childish part of me; something hidden, buried in the depths of my heart, beamed at the image of this man beside me. But, thoughts alone do little more than burden a weight of shame upon my soul. I tear such prospects away with distracting articles about the political efforts of a young Lord Thomas Hamilton, hoping above all else that my attempts at decency do enough to leave these people unscathed by judgmental forces.

Before we made our way to the Red Lion, I observed the detective adorn himself in an elaborate disguise. His skill in increasing his age with pigment and clothing never ceased to amaze me. He applies burnt charcoal to his hair for a graying effect, and a more diluted form of it as a light paste upon his cheeks and forehead. I watched as the man before me changed, altering his very own perception under the public eye. 

He sends a bowler hat my way, along with a larger jacket to cloak my form. It was foolish to wear such layers on a warm summer night, but I understood the necessity of it.

“Come now, Watson. Let us hope we are inconspicuous enough in our appearance so as to not alert the Lieutenant of our presence.” With that, we made our way down the staircase to hail a cab. The journey to the public house was not long, but Holmes seemed rather insistent on silence within the hansom. I watched him in his stillness—eyes closed to avoid unnecessary distraction—as the puzzle transformed in his mind. As thrilling as it was to watch feelings of excitement course through his veins, the quiet moments of thought held an intimate aspect that remained absent in the height of discovery. The sharp look in his eye, the smirk upon his cheek, were instead replaced with a content contemplation and ease that few ever saw in the man outside of myself. I cherished the privilege to witness such tranquil times with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

As we entered the Red Lion, we were instantly greeted by the sight of a group of navy officers, loud and cantankerous as they so often are. Beside me, I could feel Holmes—tense and uncomfortable—as his eyes scanned the crowd of blue uniforms ahead of us. For a moment, I found myself dejected and upset, certain that we had picked the wrong establishment, only then to feel Holmes elbow my side and jerk his head to the side with triumph. Following his line of sight, I recognised the distinctive colour of Lieutenant James McGraw’s hair in an instant, seated across a man in a powdered wig, and engaged in what seemed to be an intense conversation. We both exhaled in relief and Holmes pulled us into a shadowed booth, far away from our target, yet with a clear line of sight to him.

“Who is the man with the Lieutenant, do you think, Holmes?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “I cannot examine his rank mark from such distance.”

“Judging by his uniform, as well as the way McGraw is seated across him, I would wager him to be a superior of his. A Captain, at the very least, or even an Admiral. I would not think it matters much what he is, so much as who he is in relation to the Lieutenant.” Holmes leaned a bit closer to me, his weight bringing a comfort to this risk fueled evening. If I shifted to return the closeness, Holmes did nothing to mention as such. “Have you noticed how, when McGraw speaks, his attention can be rather intense? I have not had the pleasure to converse with the gentleman myself, however I am sure that his rapt and perceptive nature did not escape your notice. He is a quiet man, who prefers to listen rather than speak, even when in the company of a magnanimous persona such as Lord Thomas Hamilton. Observe him here, with this superior of his, Watson. This is perhaps the most comfortable I have ever seen the Lieutenant—as close, I would say, to having his guard down as this man could get. This leads me to deduce that the man opposite him is not merely a superior, but perhaps a friend, or even family. In either case, he is undoubtedly a man whose approval McGraw chases.”

“An interesting observation, Holmes,” I murmured, watching the older man get up to leave McGraw on his own. “Do I find implication in your words that this is, perhaps, someone aware of McGraw’s work with Lord Hamilton—and even worked to facilitate it? I believe you are correct in your assessment of their relationship, however. Now that I can cast a closer look at the gentleman’s attire, I can confirm that this is the uniform of a Navy Admiral.”

“I believe so, Watson. In fact, I am quite convinced that this Admiral holds a rather considerable sway over our friend the Lieutenant. Whether that is a good or a bad thing, I am not in a position to say as of yet. Quiet, now. He is approaching—we do not want to be observed.”

Lieutenant McGraw was headed to the bar, aiming to get another drink I presumed. His eyes were fixed forward and, much to my thanks, he did not look our way. 

A group of navy officers were observing McGraw from the side, and one leaned to say something to him, though I could not catch it well. Holmes raised an eyebrow. I was well aware that my friend’s hearing was much superior to mine—he had not spent years under the rain of gunfire, after all—and he was rather proficient in the art of lip-reading, a skill that had proven itself infinitely useful in our work. 

“What ever are they saying, Holmes?”

“The gentleman was congratulating Lieutenant McGraw on his appointment as a liaison to the Hamiltons,” Holmes replied, speaking quietly and only barely moving his mouth. “Though I would assume his congratulations were not sincere in their entirety. He mentioned something about the ‘son of a carpenter’s mate’, which I assume refers to McGraw’s background. So you were correct, Watson—there is indeed some tension there.” Holmes hummed under his breath and knitted his eyebrows. “Oh, he has moved—I have a less clear view to his lips now—but from what I can tell, the gentleman is taunting the Lieutenant. Mark my words, Watson, I feel that this will not end well.”

There was no need for interpretation of the next part of the conversation, however. Even though Holmes and I were sitting a considerable distance from the bar, the next words from the officer’s mouth were loud enough even for us—and, I would assume, a good part of the rest of the customers in the Red Lion—to hear without straining too hard. 

“...if he likes you well enough, he would even let you fuck his wife.”

The following events unfolded in such rapid pace, that neither I nor Holmes could do anything to prevent them. In the very blink of an eye, Lieutenant McGraw was upon the officer, the two of them clutched in what looked to be a bloody, violent brawl. McGraw clearly had the upper hand, and was the more skilled fighter of the two. While the shorter man had clearly managed to land at least a punch on him—for McGraw’s face was certainly bloodied—the man I had grown to know as a quiet, stern Lieutenant now fought like the devil himself was driving him. His fist rose and fell, and rose, and fell, and even from where we were sitting, I could see how his knuckles collided with the other man’s nose and broke the bone. 

Another officer from the group attempted to go at McGraw from the back, yet McGraw was quicker—he blocked the attack and grabbed the man’s collar, smashing his face into the bar with considerable strength that I would not have guessed he possessed from his form. I stood up then to go to them—for what reason, I could not fathom in a logical sense so much as an emotional one. It seemed completely unfair that two people should go against one, even if the Lieutenant was more than capable of taking on more of them if needed. However, before any advancement in my thought was possible, Holmes’ hand on my arm aborted my movement.

“Do sit down, my dear Watson,” my friend said, his voice calm and quiet against my ear, as his shrewd eyes observed the scene unfolding before us. We were still hunched back into the shadow, ensuring that we did not attract undue attention onto ourselves. “There is little we can do but observe. Intervening in this situation will compromise our position, and help precisely no one.”

Holmes was, of course, correct. As he said this, it seemed that the situation was simmering down as swift as it had begun. I relaxed into my seat as I watched two men pull McGraw off the officer who had dared make a comment about Lady Hamilton’s virtue. The poor man’s face seemed to be monstrously disfigured by the repeated attacks from McGraw’s fist, and I winced as I could hear the painful wheezing coming from him. It was rather likely that the chap would never be able to maintain normal breath again, unfortunate as it may have been. McGraw, on his part, seemed to have only gotten away with scraped knuckles and a nosebleed, however the look in his eyes made my heart stutter with mute terror. His gaze burned with an intensity that I had never seen in another human being before or since, not even on the other side of the trenches when I served in the war. 

There have been many times when I have felt fear while working on a case alongside Holmes. Whether it was at the sight of a monstrous hound lunging at an unassuming, traitorous man, or at the sound of a poison dart coming ever so close to taking my dear friend away from me forever; fear had become my companion nearly as much as Holmes has. I often thrived on it—for Holmes himself had once said that fear is what keeps us alert and careful like nothing else—but I had never felt quite as frightened as I did when observing Lieutenant James McGraw’s face that evening. It was not simple hatred or rage that darkened his features; it was something much deeper, hungrier within him, something that thirsted for blood and vengeance, that made unease shrivel up with pain in my gut. I tried, desperately, to tell myself I did not recognise this look, that I had not seen it in the mirror myself. I failed to do so. 

The Admiral who was conversing with McGraw just before had stepped in, and ordered all his officers out of the establishment. McGraw himself was still trying to catch his breath as I saw the older man say something to him in a hush, though I could not hear what. Holmes, on the contrary, seemed perturbed by what he had seen of the conversation. I could not quite read the look on my friend’s face, but I could tell that whatever he heard, it unsettled him to his core.

I was about to ask him what it was that had shaken him so, when I felt everything inside me freeze. For Lieutenant McGraw was looking directly at us. 

Despite our disguises, I could tell that he had recognised us; for I could see a torrent of emotion sweep over his face. I do not know if what I could see was shame—that we had gotten to see him in this state—or fury—that we were intruding into such personal business in the first place. After breaking his eyes away from us, McGraw became scrupulous. He bade a hasty farewell to his Admiral—leaving him confounded—as he pulled his coat on and left the Red Lion with determination in his step.

Holmes gasped and caught my elbow. “Watson, he has spotted us! We must not let him get away! Do not dawdle now, follow me, we’ve not a moment to lose.”


	5. V

Holmes and I weaved through the remaining crowd and out the door of the Red Lion, moving at a pace quick enough to match the Lieutenant, but not to spring his attention upon us. We stayed several steps behind him, ensuring that we ducked around corners and used cover behind anything we could find. McGraw was a shrewd man and he was not to be underestimated; he looked over his shoulder several times with a discerning, careful gaze, however we seemed to succeed in remaining hidden from his sight. 

“Is this the direction to his rooms, Holmes?” I asked in a whisper, leaning toward his ear. 

“Quite the opposite, in fact. Increase your pace a bit, if you are able, Watson. I have a rather strong suspicion that we may be returning to Palace Street this evening.” I followed his direction with diligence, and quickened my step as much as it would allow before transforming to a jog. Even whilst looking away from his face, I swear I could _feel_ the smirk upon his lips. This was the beating heart of our work together—the thrill of the chase, the adventure, thrumming like music in our blood and our bodies—and the joy emanating from my friend echoed through to my own heartbeat. Seeing Holmes so energised brought me a visceral joy, for I had worried that, after the Moriarty affair, he would have difficulty stepping back into this role. Now I could see that for him, doing this work was as easy as breathing. He had a genuine deep love for it, a love men ordinarily reserved for their spouses. That thought stung my heart in a most unexpected way. 

McGraw appeared to quicken his step in that moment, and Holmes clutched my hand in his as we rushed to follow him. I imagined the intimate gesture was no more than a byproduct of his excitement at the thrill of the game we were playing with our target, and promptly ignored the fluttering within my chest.

By a quarter of an hour—and a great number of moments concealing ourselves behind objects in the street—Holmes and I reached the Hamilton estate, several feet behind McGraw. Holmes extracted his compact binoculars from within his inner breast pocket, and observed what he could through the cloak of night.

“He has evaded the front door, it seems. Curious… Ah! He has positioned himself under a window. Lady Hamilton’s, I can only assume. He appears to be… whistling. Ah, of course! Hear that, Watson?” And almost outside my earshot I did indeed hear a faint whistle, which could have sounded like a bird, or the screech of a street carriage. A faint light appeared in the window that McGraw was standing under, and it blinked twice, as if someone was running a hand over a candle. “There he goes now, all the way back to the servant’s entrance. A gentle knock upon it … he is waiting, still and… there. McGraw was let in with ease and he did not even cast a glance back towards the street. Truly fascinating, Watson.” Holmes lowered the tool from his eyes in a slow movement, yet maintained his gaze upon the Hamiltons’ home for a moment longer. 

“I presume McGraw was signalling Lady Hamilton’s window, and it was none other than the Lady herself who opened the door?” I inquired after a brief quiet moment. “I do wonder how he was so confident signalling her while knowing he may wake her husband instead?”

“That would be the natural assumption, yes. Although, you know of my unwillingness to theorise without all the facts, Watson. This is little but another piece to the ever growing puzzle before us.”

In the past, such words would do little but enthrall me in the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. His prose, so natural in its eloquence that I could not be helped to hang upon each word. After the evening we experienced, however, my dread doubled in my throat. I had a significant concern for the safety of Thomas Hamilton, and for the heart of my dear Mary. To think both these excellent people had invested themselves into loving a woman so indiscreet in her behaviour was bewildering to me—her deceitful nature must be transparent to them, especially when her lover was sneaking into her bedchamber under the cover of night with no apparent effort. Yet, my interactions with Lady Hamilton remained in my mind along with that concern; the contradiction of her manner with the evidence in front of me. All the times in which Holmes had regaled me in the past of emotional attachment and its failings played over in my mind. Just how foolish would mine and Mary’s investment for the Hamiltons prove to be? Would it risk overtaking our work? Could Holmes observe such emotion within me? 

We solemnly made our way back to Baker Street after another quarter hour observing the Hamilton home. I elected to spend the night in my old rooms within 221B, rather than trek back to my lodgings with Mary. I knew it would be of no concern on her part, as such an act was common enough in recent months. The warmth of our parlour was most welcome after the chill of the London evening.

“Watson, before you retire, I wish to discuss with you my conclusions of the evening, if you are amiable.”

“Of course I am, Holmes. I would quite like to hear them”

Holmes cleared his throat and a shadow settled upon his face. “I fear Lieutenant McGraw may well be more of a threat to the Hamiltons’ safety than just a simple affair—particularly to the young Lord. You witnessed the way he treated a fellow naval officer just for speaking one word against the Lady’s honour. What, indeed, would he do if Thomas was to discover his friend’s indiscretion, especially with his own wife? Would McGraw hesitate to hurt him, do you think? For I tell you Watson, the conversation between the Lieutenant and his superior left me in a particular distress.”

“I gathered as much, yes. What was it about what they said that perturbed you so?”

“From the little that I could read from the Admiral’s lips, I surmised that he was telling McGraw that there is a… well—a darkness within him. Something wild and rather dangerous, if his actions tonight were any indication. Should the Admiral’s assessment be correct—and remember, he looks to be a man who is intimately familiar with McGraw—we may indeed have a dangerous man on our hands. A delicacy is required in such circumstances to protect the lives of those in danger, one that may warrant more time upon this case than I previously suspected.” 

There was a caution behind his words that I did not recognise. As though the weight of the evening sat upon his shoulders, but the reason for it was unknown to me. Physical violence had not been perturbing to Holmes’ sensibilities in the past, nor the affairs of members of the establishment. His tone reminded me again of my confusion upon his acceptance of this case just a day prior. Why such diligence in a case he would often, otherwise, disregard with contempt, or solve in one evening?

“More time to do what?” I asked, in a manner as inconspicuous as I could manage.

“For me to employ the aid of none other than yourself and Mrs. Watson, of course. It is clear to me now that the Hamiltons—while often more personable than others in their social circle—are most secretive indeed beneath the surface. To uncover what they wish to cloak in the shadow of open minded philosophy and progressive politics, that is what interests me. Yourself and Mary must befriend them. Report to me whatever information you can muster, and do not withhold a single detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem. I need you to do this for me, Watson.”

Warmth drained from my face at Holmes’ words, as if they were directed at my own private life. Such secrets, hidden beneath the foundations of the Hamilton estate, were nebulous in their truth, and conflicting in my heart. The curiosity of the detective contradicting the sensitivity of a shameful man, hidden behind a veil of my own making. 

“All right, I will do as you ask.” I prayed that the dim lighting within the parlour was enough to cover the deadened expression on my face.

“I am grateful, as always. I shall wire the Earl of Ashbourne first thing in the morning to ask for an extension of the deadline he has set me; I will not go into detail of the circumstances for I do not wish to sow panic however I do feel it is reasonable, considering the careful approach this case needs. Now, do get some rest before tomorrow, we have much to do!”

“This sounds like a sensible course of action. Goodnight, my friend,” I said as I entered the privacy of my bedroom.

“Sleep well, my dear Watson,” Holmes murmured as he examined his notes of the case so far. The letter, newspaper clippings he had gathered, along with several photographs of Thomas and Miranda Hamilton, poised as the perfect noble couple. He studied the smiles on their faces with an intensity I wished so deeply to cherish. Instead, something menacing twisted in my gut as I shut the door behind me.

* * *

The following week, Mary and I readied ourselves for a formal dinner with Lord and Lady Hamilton. Even with knowledge of stakes set as high as this, I allowed myself some sense of joy at the prospect of getting to know the couple better. Mary appeared much more eager in her preparation, however, lasting out until the very moment we reached the threshold of our new friends’ home. I could tell that she was keen to see them too—particularly, I wagered, the Lady.

We were met at the door with a warmth and splendour that we had by now learned to associate with the Hamiltons. Thomas’ smile was bright and charming and his deep eyes reflected the shine from Lady Hamilton’s spectacular jewellery. She greeted us with enthusiasm, as well and insisted that we call her by her Christian name as well. The habit fell easily upon our lips, for _Miranda_ suited her ever so much more than Lady Hamilton did. I found that the discarding ceremony was surprisingly easy in the presence of the Hamiltons.

Supper itself was nothing short of spectacular. Lord and Lady Hamilton’s cook had gone above and beyond any expectations that we may have had of the affair. Mary and I found ourselves enthralled by both the delicious meal, the beautiful ambience of the dining room and the easy conversation with Thomas and Miranda. It was clear that they entertained often and did so not out of obligation but with a gusto and enjoyment that was entirely singular to them. Spurred on by the recent developments in my case with Holmes, the eye I cast upon our hosts was a deductive one as much as it was a courteous one. I may have felt more guilty about this, was I not convinced that the Hamiltons’ safety—particularly that of Thomas—hinged on the successful conclusion of this mystery.

Conversation flowed with ease between us. Thomas, much like in his salon, was ready to tackle complicated subjects and conduct deep philosophical discussions, only to ask whether I would like another serving of pork in the same breath. It impressed me, how he turned complicated discourse into small talk, how carefully he pried open our sensibilities and then questioned them with care and curiosity. Oftentimes, Miranda would put her hand on his shoulder to serve as a reminder for him to take a bite of his meal before it went cold—he would so enthuse himself talking that he would forget we were having dinner.

“My darling Thomas,” she said, seizing the opportunity when Thomas’ mouth was full of food, ”is truly dedicated to playing the role of devil’s advocate in any conversation. It is a habit of his that we have often discussed. He means no offence, dear Watsons. It is just the way he is.”

Thomas swallowed and put his hand over that of his wife in an affectionate gesture. “Dearest, surely I am not so bad as to be reproached in this way in front of our guests?” His jovial tone and sparkling eyes indicated some kind of private joke between them.

“Oh, but I do not mean it in a reproachful way, not in the slightest.” Miranda turned to us with a charming, beautiful smile. “Thomas would only question your views and ideas out of love and care. It is in his nature to seek freedom for everyone, and sometimes he will attempt to free you even from yourselves. It is very much how he won me over all those years ago. Half a decade of marriage—and I am yet to tire of this quality of his.” 

Thomas seemed bashful, yet pleased at his wife’s assessment. He planted a gentle, quick kiss on her hand as it lay on his shoulder. It was not the first time tonight that I had seen this casual affection between them—they were rather open with their displays of care towards each other. The devotion they shared did nothing but fuel my confusion and interest at our recent revelations. If Miranda was so clearly fond of her husband—and he was no less so of her—why was she liaising with his colleague in the middle of the night, via the servants’ entryway? 

On the subject of James McGraw, it was made clear to me over the course of the evening that Thomas felt nothing but deep respect and admiration for his advisor. When he spoke of their work—a project McGraw was advising him on, one which Thomas could not share the sensitive details about—or his readings on philosophy, or his thoughts on the Whigs’ latest act in government, Thomas’ sentences would often begin with “James thinks …” or “James would say …”. He recollected the events of his very first meeting with the Lieutenant to us with an obvious fondness. 

“I called him a self-obsessed careerist,” Thomas said with a gentle smile, “and he rather heavily implied that I was but a spoiled noble, with no idea of the world beyond the walls of his parlour. I have to say, this was the moment that I was certain we would become fast friends.”

Several times throughout the course of the evening, Thomas had referred to McGraw as his friend, in a brotherly, warm manner. It did not escape my notice that Miranda was quiet at any mentions of the Lieutenant, becoming rather enraptured with her food, thereby making something unpleasant coil deep in my stomach. I had been hoping that—despite the mounting evidence in favour of it—the rumours of an affair would return unfounded after all. Alas, Miranda’s behaviour did little to dissuade my doubts of Lieutenant McGraw’s place in her affections. Several times, I caught her glancing at Thomas with concern when he mentioned his friend’s name, though Thomas himself seemed oblivious to it. Thinking of the reasons behind this look in her eyes made the food I was eating turn into ash in my mouth. It was not fair, I thought in desperation, that two people as bright as them would be embroiled in such an unpleasant affair. If only there was a way for love to function differently! 

After dinner was finished, Miranda invited Mary to join her in her study for a private clavichord performance. My wife squeezed my hands, and I returned the gesture with kind reassurance. With a kiss to Miranda’s cheek, Thomas said:

“I hope you do not mind, ladies, if I was to steal Doctor Watson for a glass of port in the parlour instead?”

The ladies did not, in fact, mind, which is how I found myself nursing a glass of rather excellent port in the Hamiltons’ parlour. The ornate clock beside the fireplace struck nine o’clock as the firelight danced and warmed me in equal measure with the alcohol. Thomas sat across me, his left leg draped over his right, the liquid in his glass twirling in an enticing display. I felt rather exposed when subjected to this man’s open, honest gaze, yet Thomas did not intimidate me. I felt that his mere presence beckoned honesty and openness. 

“I cannot thank you enough for your gracious hospitality tonight, Thomas,” I began in earnest. “I am well aware that our social life has been somewhat lacking in the months since Holmes’ return, and I know that this has been taxing on Mary. She has enjoyed herself immensely tonight; as have I.”

“It is no bother at all, dear fellow,” Thomas said, waving a hand with a smile. “It is truly a pleasure to have you here and both Miranda and I enjoy your company inordinately.” He kept his eyes on me, studious and careful. “I am not surprised to hear that Mr. Holmes has been keeping you rather busy—I have been left with the impression that his work ethic is impeccable, yet punishing. Much like my own, I must say. It is not unheard of that I would forget to eat all day long until James reminds me to do so.” 

It may have been the strength of the port, or the overwhelming lightness and warmth that came with the conversation, but I felt a smile spread across my face. “That is indeed very reminiscent of Holmes, for I sometimes fear he may starve to death if I am not around to call on food for him.”

“Quite so. Have you known him long?” 

“It will be fourteen years next winter.” 

“I see. It truly is remarkable—how our lives can change in the blink of an eye on account of one chance meeting with one remarkable man. I have had experience of this, myself.” My throat tightened as Thomas’ gaze remained fixed on me, though I could not tell why. There was an enticing curve to his smile. “Tell me, Doctor Watson, is it not exhilarating to be in the presence of great men? There is a feeling of a specific thrill and excitement one gets in these cases. Have you felt it?”

I observed Thomas, and the way he was reclining in his chair. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his delicate pale wrists and forearms in a way that bordered on indecent. Whether it was the charge of the evening conversation or the port, I could see a peachy flush upon his cheeks, rather obvious due to his pale complexion. He was, undoubtedly, a very handsome man.

Thomas was watching me with intent and I squirmed in my seat, feeling like my breath had been kicked out of me. I dared not entertain the notion of what was happening here, what his rolled up sleeves and crooked smile were suggesting; it was much too dangerous to even attempt to broach my assumptions with the young Lord. 

When I did not reply, Thomas tilted his head in a question. “Has my candour made you uncomfortable? I am ever so sorry. As Miranda has pointed out, I do rather have a habit of putting my foot in it.”

“Not at all, Thomas.” I swallowed, my throat feeling dry and closed up. I tried to wash away the feeling with another sip of port. I could hear the faint sounds of Miranda’s clavichord from down the hall to where I presumed her study to be. “Not at all. I was simply wondering—when you said you had had similar experiences of meeting truly great men, did you mean anyone in particular? Lieutenant McGraw?”

Thomas’ eyes glinted playfully. “In part,” he confessed, not elaborating further. “But yourself as well. I think you quite underestimate what a fascinating individual you are, Doctor Watson. I can see it with clarity, even if you do so seem to prefer standing in the shadow of your illustrious friend.” 

A sudden nervousness came over me as I rose from my seat abruptly and approached the fireplace. Heat was rising up in my face. “I do not see myself as being in Holmes’ shadow. He is my friend and collaborator,” I commented, focusing on entirely the wrong part of Thomas’ sentence.

There was movement behind me as I realised that Thomas too had gotten up from his chair and moved closer to me, the distance between us now reduced to almost nothing. “I meant no offence,” he said, softness lining his tone. He was so close that I could almost feel his breath on the back of my neck. “That shadow is often a rather comforting place to be. Many can be afraid of the darkness it casts, however I find that darkness is rather conducive to discovery and a breaking down of the societal norms we so often chain ourselves within.”

The meaning behind his words shook me into a revelation of the most grand scale. I felt something burning deep within my chest as I turned around and raised my eyes to meet Thomas’. He smiled and moved so he was slightly further away from me and leaned against the fireplace, one hand braced on the mantelpiece. The firelight danced along his pale skin and his golden hair, making him appear close to angelic. 

I wondered, vaguely, whether the fire was lit in Baker Street as well, whether Holmes was standing above it with his usual look of contemplation, hands steepled behind his back. The thought entered my mind, unexpected yet not unwelcome, as thoughts of Holmes tended to be. Any emotion born of this interaction with Thomas Hamilton seemed to rely, in exclusion, with feelings toward my old friend. A truth such as that unnerved me, in the altered state my mind existed in at the moment. To think of Holmes in such a vulnerable state was a danger I dared not explore most days. Yet, Thomas seemed to wish to pull such indecency out of me anyway.

I swallowed, my throat moving painfully, every word feeling overcome with effort. “Thomas, I am—” How could I say what was on my mind without risking everything? How was I to know I could trust this man? “I do not think I can give you what you seek,” is what I finally settled on, watching his reaction with care, my entire body tense with anxiety. 

Thomas’ eyebrows rose up in bewilderment, eyes widening ever so slightly. My heart clenched, afraid that I had offended him with just the assumption that I could not force myself to speak. He was a perceptive man, however—I watched the realisation dawn on his face, as his mouth formed a quiet “Oh” and he took a gentle step back. 

“I apologise, I did not—”

He raised his hand to stop me from talking. “I am the one who should apologise, Doctor Watson. I did not mean for—” He seemed lost for words for a moment, which, I assumed, was a rarity for him indeed. “It was not my intention to make you believe I have any demands towards you. Quite the contrary. As I said, you are a rather remarkable man, in many ways—and I will stand by this assessment any day. Nevertheless, I am not blind, doctor. I know very well that your heart belongs to another.” A gentle, careful smile appeared on his face, one intended to comfort rather than mock. His gaze and voice both turned unbearably soft, as he added, quietly, almost pious in his revelation: “In fact, so does mine.” 

I took in a deep breath. Considering the context of our conversation, Thomas’ suggestion was clear—yet, I attempted to comfort myself anyway. _He means our wives, assuredly, our wonderful spouses whom we both love with devotion._ But Thomas kept observing me with that gentle intensity, with that private, careful smile, and I knew that he had made a—not incorrect—assumption about me, an assumption that would leave many unsaid things between us. Once again, my thoughts drifted back to Holmes, what he had said of the love letter we were set on investigating— _I am far more concerned with what words remain absent than what words are present_ —my friend’s voice rang in my ear, prescient as always. Just as I opened my mouth to reply, our attention was drawn away by Mary’s voice behind us. 

“We apologise ever so much, gentlemen. Miranda and I quite lost track of time.” Our wives had walked back in the parlour, their arms linked together at the elbows. It warmed my heart to see the fast friendship that had developed between them. Knowing what I do of my wife, her intentions were clear with Miranda. Yet, what I knew of the Lady made such intentions appear fruitless. My mind whirred with frustration; why must the pieces to such a delicate puzzle refuse to fit?

Thomas turned around, ripping his gaze away from me and smiled warmly. “That is no problem at all. Miranda’s musical talent does make one forget everything around them with ease. Time is getting on, though we do tend to retire rather late in the evening, but I would so despise endangering either of you in getting home at such an hour.”

“Yes, it is perhaps for the best that we go.” It was a welcome exit point that Thomas had provided us, for I wanted nothing more but to extract myself from this moment, this conversation. I left the empty port glass on the small table near the chair. 

Our hosts bade us goodbye, ever so gracious and charming, with promises that we were to do it again, very soon indeed. Miranda placed kisses both on mine and Mary’s cheeks and Thomas held my hand in his perhaps longer than necessary—or maybe I imagined so after our conversation?—and soon, Mary and I were in a carriage headed for our lodgings. The silence between us was pregnant and intense, as I yearned to share with my wife the conversation by the fireside, while equally wanting to bury it deep within myself like a shameful secret. Electing not to say anything after all, I looked out the window instead, letting my eyes wander over the rushing London streets, drowning in the darkness of the summer night.


	6. VI

The following morning, I ventured to Baker Street to regale Holmes with my findings of the night before. I had yet to decide what details of the evening to recount in honesty, and what aspects to… alter in some way or another. While much of what Thomas had said to me could be attributed to an alcohol haze—the rather strong port he served me was not trivial in the slightest—I felt the implicit nature of his words presented a far more significant risk to include than to omit. 

I disembarked from my cab before the door of 221 Baker Street with a heaviness in my step. I retrieved the key still in my possession, even in the years since Mary and my nuptials, and allowed myself in with a chipper greeting to Mrs. Hudson—with no response. Climbing the steps to Holmes’ rooms had never felt so uncertain—save for once before, upon his return to London after years of perceived death to the world. My aging knees resisted each increase in altitude, however slight it may have been. 

The door to unit B was somewhat ajar, which may have concerned me more had I not known the man who resided within it so well. It seemed that concern should have been present all the same, though, as I opened the door further to reveal that Holmes was nowhere to be found. In his place, stood in the middle of our parlour and with a wild look exacerbated by the purpling bruise near his eye, was none other than Lieutenant James McGraw. He turned around and fixed me with his stare, green eyes burning with something that set a chill deep into my very bones.

“O-oh! Lieutenant McGraw, I didn’t expect—”

“Where is Holmes?” McGraw demanded in lieu of a greeting, his tone far more brash than the one he used with me when last we spoke. 

“I am afraid I do not know. I came here to speak with him about our most recent case.” I stammered over my words at first, unable to comprehend the wild energy emanating from the man.

“Ah, yes, of course, your  _ case,” _ he sneered, as though the word itself was poison. “Tell me, doctor, does the pursuit of your  _ case  _ justify prying your nose in the personal lives of honest men? Or have you picked me as a surveillance target for some other nefarious purpose?”

“Such a boisterous claim of invasion of privacy, when you can hardly claim innocence in other regards, Lieutenant,” I retorted with more venom than is typical in my words. With the reminder of my interaction with Thomas fresh in my mind, and the events within the Red Lion public house repeating, I could not stop myself from speaking out of line. My dislike of the man had only grown with the knowledge that he was right at the heart of the sprawling disaster around the Hamilton affair.

With one wide step, McGraw moved closer to me, his mouth curled in a vicious snarl. There was something shark-like, animalistic in his expression as his eyes burned into my face. “I am only going to say this once,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “If you and your associate try to interfere with mine and Lord Hamilton’s work, if you try to bring any harm or disrepute to him in  _ any  _ way whatsoever, you will answer to me. As you will have seen during your  _ observations _ at the Red Lion, I am not someone you wish to have as an enemy.”

I took a startled step back but did not falter in my response: “Holmes and I are interested in nothing, save for protecting Lord Hamilton from you!”

My words made McGraw recoil as if he had been struck across the face. The mask of indifference that I had thought was his usual expression slipped away and I realised that his face was much more expressive than he usually showed it to be. A muscle was rapidly twitching under his eye as fury and grief were both battling for dominance in the stern line of his mouth. Fury seemed to win this particular battle. “Protect— I beg your pardon? Protect Tho— protect him from  _ me? _ What in the hell are you on about?” 

“You have shown your true nature enough!. To betray a dear friend in the way that you have, a man who speaks of you in such high regard! For shame, McGraw.” I watched the weight of my words land on him and felt no remorse for it. “Your actions, along with the words you have written, convey your true feelings and the depth of your indiscretion! Your behaviour… with Lady Hamilton, it is simply not right, not when it would grievously hurt a good man such as Lord Hamilton!” Before I could catch them, the words revealing the truth of the Earl’s case fell from my lips. The urge to insure the safety of my new friends overtook me in such a way, that I could not stop it. I stared at the man before me, desperate for Holmes’ return so as to be saved from my own foolishness.

The startled look on McGraw’s face only deepened as his eyes widened in mute horror. “My beha— The words I— oh. Oh, good Lord.” He took several steps back and crashed into Holmes’ chair behind him, as if all of his life force had been drained out of him suddenly. Something incomprehensible to me was happening in the stern lines of his body. His tense shoulders now slumped, his hands shaking as he was wringing them in an indication of deep distress. My enraged speech had somehow replaced the violent, furious man before me with something else altogether. “The letter. You know of the letter.”

“I—Yes. Yes, I do. I have read it, and I am now certain it is your hand that wrote it.” I debated, within myself, if I should reveal the Earl as our client in that moment. Remove some blame from Holmes—from myself—in the process. However, I did not know enough of our client, or the man in front of me to make such a judgment. Instead, I allowed silence until McGraw willed himself to speak again.

“It was the Earl, wasn’t it?” McGraw lifted his head to look at me, though his gaze seemed to be far, far away. “It was Alfred Hamilton who intercepted the letter I sent while stationed in the Bahama Islands and brought it to you and Holmes. Told you to investigate my— my  _ affair _ with Lady Hamilton.” He spat out the word as if it were a piece of tough meat stuck between his teeth. “He has corralled you into his insidious scheme to destroy Thomas, and you have fallen right into it. But of course you have. You couldn’t have known.” 

I had not noticed, until that moment, that I had yet to hear McGraw refer to Thomas with his given name, despite the young Lord’s demands of all others to do so. The manner with which the Lieutenant said the syllables held a reverence I seldom heard from a man speaking of his colleague. All the same, he seemed to mostly be talking to himself, now, vocalising his own thoughts. Of all the incredible things McGraw was revealing to me, one flashed in my mind with all the intensity of a warning light.

“You mean to say that, the Earl has intentions against Thomas? Why in God’s name would he wish for such ill upon his own kin? His eldest son, his heir to the title?” 

McGraw laughed but it was unhappy and bitter. “Nothing would make Alfred Hamilton happier than seeing Thomas disappear without a trace. Whether by death or incarceration, I do not know—I would put neither past him.” Every word out of his mouth seemed to cause him unspeakable pain, as if just the thought of either of those things happening to Thomas tore at the very heart of him. “There are no warm feelings in the Earl’s heart for his own son. At times, I wonder if he has a heart at all or if it is just a black, rotten thing inside his chest. Thomas has been a thorn in his side from a very young age, and continues to be one to this day; at times, one could say he ardently  _ strives _ to be one, despite mine and the Lady’s advice to the contrary.” An unexpected smile twisted the corner of McGraw’s lip. All his anger seemed to have drained away from him. He now simply looked very, very tired. “If I am to— explain the full scale of the affair you and your companion have embroiled yourselves in, I would appreciate a stiff drink first, Doctor Watson.”

I did not hesitate in marching to Holmes’ decanter to pour two generous glasses of scotch. My heart raced at the sight of this once intimidating force of a man, who had easily overtaken two others coming at him with their fists just days ago, now crumbling before my eyes. McGraw spoke of the Earl of Ashbourne as though he was less so a cunning aristocrat, and more so as a villain of a grander tale. Usually, I would take the role of a scribe of such tales, and yet it appeared that I was now the hero of one such story. I handed him his tumbler before settling into my chair; my pulse wild in my ears.

McGraw took a hefty sip before he managed to find his words again. “Thomas is currently attempting a rather— dangerous political strategy in Whitehall. Simply put, it is an effort to eradicate the social epidemic of blackmailing between… homosexuals in all levels of British society. Ever since the creation of the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, blackmailing cases have skyrocketed, and it is tied directly with the criminalisation of homosexual behaviour, in public or private. In cases of small personal disputes over finances, social disagreements, or larger scale conflicts, many of these men will blackmail their friends, enemies… lovers, with threats of revealing their perverse nature." At the last word from his lips, McGraw took a pause to glance up at me. As if gauging a reaction from me, though I am unsure if he found anything but blank terror. "Thomas’ plan is quite a radical one—to decriminalise sodomy and all related acts, offering a full, unqualified pardon to those convicted. He would like to free all men incarcerated on charges of gross indecency and integrate them back into society. As his liaison, I— have attempted to dissuade him from attempting this. Not because I do not believe in its importance or gravitas, but because I knew of the ire that his father would unleash upon him.” McGraw took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. “Alfred Hamilton is not a political opponent one wants in our position; he holds considerable influence over the Privy Council, both chambers of the House and the Admiralty. He could easily destroy both Thomas’ ambitions and my career, should he wish to. Thomas knows this better than anyone. But, his convictions and ideals have always been unshakeable, and he does not kneel in the face of danger. So, he adamantly refuses to bow down.” 

This political venture, though spoken about with a stoicism so often found in officers such as McGraw, struck something within my chest. To entirely pardon all convicted homosexuals, to decriminalise something so often reviled by the public? It was foolish, impossible; that anyone had allowed him to think so grand was the true question. Despite myself, I listened intently, careful not to betray any emotion that McGraw’s explanation sparked within me on my face. I took a strong sip out of my own tumbler, for I felt a burning need for it.

“Thomas presented his proposition to the Earl over dinner several weeks ago,” McGraw continued, his eyes now staring ahead as if he could not quite see me there. “Alfred Hamilton did  _ not _ take this well, as you might imagine. He called Thomas a criminal, a traitor to the Crown, a sinner in the eyes of God and the Queen. He threatened to have him committed to a madhouse, to have him disinherited and removed from the country. I could not stand for it; I could not listen to someone insult the truest, best man I have ever had the good fortune to know. I stood and told the Earl that Thomas’ plan was sound and achievable, that I would be supporting it in front of my superiors at the Admiralty, and that he should leave the house immediately.” Another private, small smile appeared on McGraw’s face. It completely changed the harsh lines around his mouth, transforming him into an altogether different person. “It is worth noting that the estate in Palace Street that Thomas and Miranda occupy belongs to the Earl.”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I could not help but let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You told a Peer of the Realm to leave his own home?”

“I did. For the life of me, I do not know what possessed me to do it. It felt very much like falling faint. As if all my good sense had left me, and I was moved by some unknown, divine force.” McGraw sighed and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging some of it from its neat queue. “I would assume that the Earl conveniently left out the details of this altercation when he hired Holmes for this case?”

“Er—Yes, he rather did,” I replied, my thoughts caught in a blur. Had I known less of my alcohol tolerance, I may have blamed it upon the liquor, but I knew it was McGraw’s words that had left me feeling this way. Yet there was one piece of this puzzle that did not quite fit just yet. “The-These details change many things, yet not the reason the Earl provided to us about an affair in the first place. Tell me then, Lieutenant McGraw, if you care so for Thomas’ campaign and for his well-being, if you are so quick to threaten Holmes—to threaten me—to protect him; why are you having an affair with Lady Hamilton when you know how this would hurt him?”

Lieutenant McGraw looked at me straight in the eye. There was a haunted look upon him. He looked like a man who was stepping up the dais to his own gallows; he was expecting, I realised, a death sentence from me. “I believe that after all I have shared with you and all I am yet to share, Doctor Watson, it is appropriate for you to refer to me by my Christian name, James.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I will only say this once. I am not having an affair with Lady Miranda Hamilton.”

“But—But the letter, James… I saw the envelope it was enclosed within. The name—”

“The name on the envelope was Hamilton, was it not?” McGraw—or rather, James—downed the remainder of his scotch in one go. “Lady Hamilton is not the only person to bear the Hamilton name who resides in Palace Street. There is one other.”

In the life span of that sentence, I felt every missing piece fall into place. Each individual question—the letter, the salon, the pub, the dinner—erased themselves within my mind. Upon observation of my hand, I noticed a tremor. I moved my gaze up to look at James. Any of the stern naval officer exterior I had known of him before was shattered—a strain upon his face now resided there, riddled with much the same emotion as my own. Now the conversation with Thomas from last night took on a startlingly different tone, as I glimpsed the meaning of the words hidden between the lines of what he had told me.  _ I know very well that your heart belongs to another. In fact, so does mine.  _ I felt as though I was going to be sick. 

“ _ You _ ? You and... Thomas?” I muttered lamely.

James seemed to consider the empty tumbler in his hands for a good while. For a minute I thought to stand and offer him another drink, but he reached to place it on the nearest bookshelf rather than asking for one. Then, he produced something from the breast pocket of his coat—a small book bound in red. He held it in his hands, staring at it as if he were seeing it for the first time, his thumbs running over the leather. It seemed to bring him some measure of comfort, enough so that he could find his words again. “What you and Holmes saw, in that pub. It is not the first time this has happened.” He took a deep breath. “My appointment with the Hamiltons has often been cause for mockery, but even before this, I have often had to prove my position and my rank to others who underestimate me. Admiral Hennessey—the superior officer you saw me with, a man who has raised me as his own son—has witnessed this many times. What he told me that night was that he sees something wild within me, something dark that even I cannot control. He is right. I have always weathered this world with my fists or with my words, whichever I could use to cause more hurt. Sometimes—” James huffed a shaky laugh at some private joke. “Sometimes it felt like I was fighting simply for the sake of fighting. Because it was the only state in which I could function, it was the only way I could quell this— this fire, burning inside me, the only way to silence the loud, insistent voice in my head.”

I do not know how I managed to find the strength to speak. “Voice? Whatever do you mean?” I knew, precisely, to what James referred, but I had to maintain perceived ignorance just one moment longer.

“The one telling me to be ashamed of myself.” James’ eyes betrayed his vulnerability, his weakness in the face of the confession he was imparting upon me, in the face of the judgement he awaited. “For loving him.” 

A suffocating ache twisted around my chest, my lungs, my heart, at that final phrase. Such a simple, powerful confession from a man who could act as a mirror to my very soul; a man I had just an hour ago thought so villainous and depraved. The familiarity of his emotion burned into me, as if brandishings upon my skin. Of course, it was this truth sitting at the core of such a bizarre case. To expect otherwise would be to underestimate the very earth we walked upon.

James continued. At this point, it did not feel like he was speaking to me at all. “I have spent my entire life being told that it was shameful. That I am perverted, unwanted—a degenerate, only suited to live in the dark. For years, I felt that it was true. I believed those words deep within me, and I tried to quell my unnatural desires, to murder them. Thomas—” Even speaking his name seemed to be a task James barely had the strength for. “Thomas showed me that what we have could be different, that it could be  _ better _ , that it could be  _ beautiful _ . When he speaks, when he talks of us, of all we are and all we could be, he makes every angry, hateful voice inside me go quiet. He—he talks of it as if it is something precious, as if it is something worth  _ protecting _ . He talks of loving me as if it is as easy to him as breathing. He brings me out into the light.” James took a deep breath and met my eyes again. ”I know how this must sound to you. I know that this must seem lowly and unworthy, a betrayal for all you know to be good and right, and I know what you must think of me now. I ask you not to judge me by the way society views me and Thomas. I ask you to look past this and to see that all I have done, all Thomas and I have done and continue to do, all we have been fighting for, has been in the service of nothing but love.”

With that, he opened the book that he was holding to the flyleaf and, after brief consideration, turned it towards me so I could see. There was an inscription there in a careful, beautiful hand that, I thought, matched its owner just so.

_ James, my truest love. Know no shame.  _ — _ T. H.  _

I could not begin to think of just what to say in reply. The cold, dead grip of shame upon my soul was unclear to me now. I met James’ eyes, in hope, in prayer that he could gather the turmoil within me at his confession. 

Overwhelmed, James hastily tucked the book back into his breast pocket and rose from the chair, taking instead to pacing about the floor. “I am imparting this information to you because I have no choice but to do so. Because if I had not, your friend would have discovered it, after my— indiscretion last week. I would rather throw myself upon the knife than to be thrust upon it.” The previous hardiness and chill was back in his voice, his back had straightened up. The man, who was ready to fight the world to protect that which he loves, once again stood in front of me. 

“I only have one request to make of you, Doctor Watson. Any repercussions that you consider need to be excised because of this, I will weather— all that I ask is that you leave Thomas out of it. I have given you a weapon with which to destroy us both if you so wish but I rely on your good character and your kindness to spare Thomas the blow. Can I have your reassurance that you will do so?”

Once again, I relied solely upon an exchange of glances to convey the depths of my agreement with him. Just before I could state a word of such things, the parlour door to 221B creaked open with a start. Sherlock Holmes rumbled through the entrance of our rooms with more force than was typical of him. Rather than taking a pause at the threshold to assess the situation, he immediately moved to charge at James with all the force of his body. Before either of us could predict his movement, Holmes was upon the Lieutenant in an instant, tackling him to the floor, his fist looking to connect with James’ face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a personal favourite chapter of ours, i hope you all enjoyed it!


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! we're changing our posting schedule to now be sunday, tuesday, thursday! i hope you enjoy the new chapter :)

“Holmes!” I shouted, reaching to split the brawling men apart. “Holmes, stop, damn you!” James was not a man to back down easily–he had sent his fair share of blows in return at this stage, the ferocity on his face only increasing my panic as I gripped Holmes’ coat with all my might. It took one good  _ pull  _ after several failed attempts to separate them. Holmes stepped back and James rose to his feet and they stared at each other, vicious and agitated as if they were both about to draw their weapons. My hands clutched the shoulders of Sherlock Holmes, unwilling to remove them until I knew the altercation would not continue. If I let the haze of my conversation with James cloak my judgment as to how long he remained in my grip, it went unmentioned.

“What the hell did I ever do to you,  _ Mr. Holmes?”  _ James spat with vitriol through huffed breaths. In their brawl, Holmes had wounded his lip–blood was now trickling down his beard and, combined with his ruffled hair that was no longer fully in its queue, he looked very much the part of the violent, unreasonable fellow I had thought him to be just the day before. I could see now, the man that Alfred Hamilton seemed to despise so–and was struck at the extreme difference between the tender words that same man had said to me just moments ago. Yet, I now had the knowledge of what lay beyond that rough exterior and I feared that knowledge just as much as I cherished it.

“I think I may have to ask the same question. Holmes, what has overtaken you?” I gawked at my friend, who was sporting a bruise of his own on his jaw, an expected aftermath of James’ mighty returning swings. 

“I…” Holmes stuttered for a moment, quite unlike the eloquent man I so often see him to be. It was as though he was only now noticing that I was not protecting him, but our guest—and that such a thought appalled him. He turned to once again fix James with a cold, hard look. “Lord Thomas Hamilton was viciously attacked this morning, in a side street near his home. I deduced, given our previous observations of your activities over the last week, that this attempt on his life was in no small part attributed to  _ you.”  _ He spat the final word out at James, who was still attempting to find his breath, but appeared all the more shaken by Holmes' accusation. Instead of allowing such an affected man to respond, I chose my words with care. 

“You and I are in urgent need of some clarification here, Holmes. James, I beg of you—”

I was not quick enough. Before I could finish my sentence, James was upon Holmes in an instant, his hands grasping the lapels of my friend’s coat, lifting him off the ground and slamming him in the wall of the parlour. Although James was shorter in stature than Holmes, there was immense hidden strength in his wiry frame. I could see his arms trembling wildly with the strain of it.

“Say that again.” The Lieutenant’s voice was low and dangerous. His snarling face was so close to Holmes that some of the blood from his split lip trickled down onto Holmes’ shirt. “God help you, if you are lying to get a rise out of me, if you are using Thomas’ name to upset me, I  _ will _ string you up by your guts in Trafalgar Square.”

My eyes widened at the emotion—the  _ rage— _ emanating from James McGraw’s tense form. The sun peeked in through the curtains in long rays across the parlour, one landing square on Holmes’ face. There was no sign of fright or intimidation in his face, rather, it was curled in intrigue, a look I was ever so familiar with. As if the puzzle of this interaction was just now coming together in his mind. Such a thought troubled me further, and I sipped the remaining scotch from my glass in a swift motion. 

“I assure you, Lieutenant, no misdirection lies in my tone. More than anything, I was afraid that you had come here to provide further injury to Watson. However, I would be dishonest in stating that your reaction here has not proven quite fascinating to me in its contradiction.” Holmes’ lips curled into a pointed grin that, under more advisable circumstances, may have excited me. Now, nothing but terror ran through my veins. “Tell me, Sir, what is it about my words that has distressed you so deeply?”

James let go of Holmes’ lapels and took a step back, eyes wide, as if only just now realising the extent of his response. The Lieutenant’s gaze found mine, and it burned hot with an emotion I could not place, yet one that distressed me nevertheless. He looked as though he was a caged animal, bashing its head against the iron bars of its cage. He appeared hurt, betrayed, and desperate all the same. He was pleading, I realised. Whether he was doing so to me or to God, I knew not. I guessed, however, that both those requests would be the same:  _ keep Thomas Hamilton safe. _

Without another word, yet with a final poisonous look at my friend, James McGraw left our rooms with the utmost haste. His heavy boots echoed down the stairwell. 

I allowed the reverberation of James McGraw to linger a moment before I willed myself to reply to the man across from me. How could I begin to explain the delicate nature of things as James had? How was I to provide such details without condemning myself—or James and Thomas, for that matter—to a lonesome existence in chains, or worse; an early grave at the hands of those who damn us? I looked up at Sherlock Holmes, standing tall and proud, yet still with an alarm upon his features. Less so, it seemed, was that from the brawl moments before, but from the brief words shared between us all. He returned my stare with slight delay.

“I believe, my dear Watson, that you have some context to provide.” He gestured to our respective seats, and I followed his request—though not before pouring myself another drink. One may have argued it was too early in the day to imbibe as I had been, however I felt a pressing need for it. 

“To be frank with you, Holmes, I am uncertain where to begin.”

“In that case, I will ask you a question. When did you gain such interpersonal attachment to Lieutenant McGraw?” The way he said the name on his lips was not in the manner of an impartial detective. Was my mind deceiving me? Was the drink altering my judgment? Or did I hear something other than curiosity in Holmes’ enquiry? Something venomous and sharp lay beneath the surface, something aimed at the man who was here just before, and yet it appeared to have reached me instead. Perhaps, I had revealed more of myself to Holmes in that short interaction than I thought, and he was revolted with what he found. I trembled at the idea, and forced myself to carry on. 

“It is precisely that, Holmes, that I struggle to articulate. Upon my arrival here, McGraw appeared just as prepared to hoist me across the Thames by my lapels. He, much the same as with you, assumed I wished to do the Hamilton's harm. As a natural follow up, I asserted my belief that it was  _ he  _ who wished for such things. It appeared that the both of us had misjudged the other. After that, he relayed to me the true intent behind our client, Lord Ashbourne.”

Holmes had packed himself a pipe in earnest as I spoke, now smoking from it as though nothing else could soothe him. 

“And what, pray tell, are the Earl’s true intentions, Watson? Good Lord, man, in all my years of work with you, I have never once seen you speak in such vague terms. Out with it!” His irritation at me stung, pointed and energetic. My breath quickened, as I never suspected to have such little time to prepare these delicate words.

“It is the Earl’s intention,” I began, slow, deliberate in execution, “to disrupt Thomas’ political efforts, and his personal life along with it. He has held such a personal vendetta upon him for years now.” I intended to continue after a quick breath, but Holmes had no patience for such things. 

“I quite gathered that the Earl’s intentions were not entirely pure, Watson. My initial introduction with him should have indicated as much to you. This is not so much new information, as it is further confirmation of a suspicion of mine. That, alone, does not justify this morning’s events. I cannot fathom why you insist on implicit phrases and propriety in this moment of crucial discovery, when you have so readily discarded it in the past for my sake.” The fervour in his voice increased, ever so slightly, at his final sentence. Something horrific churned within my chest at the agony overtaking his voice. 

“I apologise, Holmes. It is… not out of disrespect for your intellect, or this case, I assure you—”

“Then what is it, Watson?!”

Holmes’ voice roared about the room, and to say I cowered in it would be an understatement. My mouth went agape in that moment, as though I was just now witnessing the duress my friend was under. The calm, professional disposition so often held by Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be found. Much like the man I spoke to just minutes before—though it felt like hours, days—he unfolded before me, trembling. 

“Holmes…”

“I—I am sorry. I should not have raised my voice with you… This case—it appears to have affected the both of us beyond what we could have expected.” A lame chuckle fell from his lips. I peered to the scotch tumbler beside me to find it empty. Shadows from the dark green curtains lining the parlour windows cast over the both of us, dark somehow, even in daylight.

“Rather than ask me questions, Holmes, I suggest you tell me what of this case you have uncovered of your own accord.” Such a sentence was all I could manage to utter in the uneven air surrounding us—threatening to swallow me whole. A resigned sigh emerged from him. I wondered, how one week within this case was enough to undo us both in this way. With Moriarty, Milverton, and countless others, I had thought such villainy was plain in nature. That morals of what is good, what is evil, were clear in the eyes of well meaning men. Now, my belief in things of such simple means felt foolish to hold. As the man I revere above all others appeared to shiver before me, I wondered if such uncomplicated ideals could ever return to me. 

“I have had to adjust my understanding of the Hamilton affair, after hearing of this morning’s events. This is far more nebulous, far more complex, than I ever contemplated to be possible. And now, it seems that lives are very much at stake.” Sherlock Holmes did not look my way, and instead examined the small clay pipe in his grasp. “Based on the reaction garnered by yourself and Lieutenant McGraw at my news of Thomas’ misfortune, one must conclude that any potential affair between him and Lady Hamilton is but a facade for darker, more dangerous goings on. What the facade covers, I—I do not know. I fear, now, that you might be privy to such knowledge, however. That, perhaps, you are concealing a truth from me you think may be inadvisable for me to know. Would such a deduction prove correct, my dear doctor?”

I could not tell if he was feigning ignorance where it did not exist. I could not read anything upon his face, for that matter. On the expression of a man I have spent much of my adult life serialising the behaviour of, I found no clarity—no truth, save uncertainty. 

“There are certain things, beyond this case, beyond the lives of the Hamiltons, or James McGraw, that cannot be spoken aloud. Secrets that are best left to live in the darkness rather than be brought out into the daylight. It may be a correct assessment, Holmes, to say that the nature of this case falls under such a category.” To ask me what I anticipated of his response would have been a fruitless effort, as the cloudy fog of emotion between us blocked all sense. 

“If you say it so, then I suppose it shall be,” Holmes resigned. Of all the things I had prepared myself for, his surrender was not one of them. “I think… I think it best that you leave now, Watson. Return to your wife, as I have some… wires to send.”

“Holmes, if I have offended—”

“Do not attempt an apology if it is not requested, my dear friend. Now, if you please, leave me to my work.” He did not meet my eyes as he took another inhale from his tobacco pipe. The two red drops of James’ blood stared at me like bloodshot eyes from Holmes’ pristine white shirt. I knew, in that moment, that to stay there was to damn myself to having a fit of absurd proportions in front of the man that so caused it. 

I scurried out of 221 Baker Street, into the late morning air. A myriad of thoughts raced in the forefront of my mind, but one in particular remained central:  _ Return to your wife. _

* * *

Much to my relief, Mary was home when I arrived. Our housekeeper took my hat and shoes at the door, and removed herself from the room with haste—perhaps recognising the distress upon my features. 

“John, my dear! I did not think you would return so soon,” Mary beamed up at me from her reading chair, that same smile I had grown to know well in our years together. The familiarity of her did nothing then, but to remind me of how foreign Holmes’ face had seemed to me just before. 

My wife put down the sock she had been darning and stood to greet me, as I found myself unable to take another step towards her. The smile melted away from her face and she placed a kind hand on my shoulder in caring concern, a worried line now appearing between her eyebrows.

“My dear, what is the matter?” she asked, now in a much less chipper voice than a moment ago. At my silence and perhaps something that she had read in my face, she ushered me to our bedroom, gestured for me to sit upon the bed, and shut the door.

“What did Holmes say to you, John? What of the case? The Hamiltons?” Her questions did not have the demanding force of the ones posed to me in Baker Street, and yet they grated through my eardrums with violence.

“I—” was the first attempt made at a response, a reply, anything. Any words that may have existed perished on my lips. 

“You are worrying me, love.” Mary gripped my right hand in her left, making soothing circles on my palm with her thumb. 

“I think,” I began again, “I am in need of brandy.” 

My wife hastened out of our bedroom, to return a moment later with a sizable glass of brandy. Ignoring the unfathomable volume of alcohol I had consumed that morning thus far, I took a robust sip of the drink. Mary sat, in silence, beside me. 

“James McGraw was at Baker Street, Mary.” The words felt as light as a mist falling from my throat, yet they choked me like a dense smoke. “He told me everything, the whole truth. About Thomas, about Miranda, about how the Earl is trying to sabotage them, potentially at risk of Thomas’ life and freedom. He told me of his and Thomas’ political venture; how the Earl of Ashbourne is committed to destroying it at any cost.” I took another gulp of my beverage to quell the tremor in my hand. “He explained… the truth of his affections for Thomas.”

“Oh…” The sigh that left Mary’s lips sounded suddenly exhausted. “Of course. I would have assumed Thomas would– but, from what I understand, James is the far more hot-headed party of the two. I am not surprised that he seeked you out to confront you.”

At that, I whipped my head around to look at my wife. 

“ _ Of course _ ? You  _ knew _ of this?” I felt an agonising ache form in my chest, tugging at the coils of shame curled around it. I did not feel betrayed, yet something unnamed was thrumming within me.

“Miranda told me everything that night when she and I were in her study. We talked of her and Thomas’— arrangement, of their home life, of James McGraw, and she was sincere and truthful, imparting much the same truths as I assume McGraw shared with you today.” Mary struggled with something, suddenly enthralled with the tips of her own fingers. I now noticed there was a ring upon her little finger; a small, delicate thing that had not been there the night before. “Miranda and I are of the same… persuasion, it turns out.”

That was very many revelations to occupy my mind, particularly after the morning I had just had. I asked the first question I could think of: “You did not tell me?” Perhaps, on another day, a discovery of this nature would not have perturbed me. But, after this morning’s harrowing encounters, I could not shake the unease it bore within me. 

“It was Miranda’s secret, John. I did not want to betray her confidence.”

“Quite right, yes.” Of course I understood her. I did little to deny Holmes the same decency during a discreet case, and have done dozens of times over. 

“McGraw’s confession to you could not possibly be what has sent you into a state like this, John. Tell me, did Holmes return? What did he have to impart upon this situation?” 

I shuddered at the return of his name to Mary’s lips. To relive one part of the morning was a toll enough, but to recount the other was to form a cavernous void within my chest—extracting my heart from its home. 

“Holmes will no longer be investigating the case provided by the Earl of Ashbourne.” It was the sole reality I could muster from our interaction, after all, wasn’t it?

“John, you didn’t—”

“I did not say a word that would indict me in… unsavoury acts, no. However, something tells me that when it comes to the work of Sherlock Holmes—” a sting, a pulse at the syllables used to define him— ”such words may not be necessary.”

Mary did not speak again after that. I emptied the brandy glass with ease, and resigned myself to restless sleep the remainder of the afternoon. I dreamed of seas and storms—of candles in dark rooms, illuminating faces I could not recognise and who would not speak a word to me.


	8. VIII

After the distressing morning in his rooms, Holmes did not call on my assistance as to the Hamilton case, and I did not attempt to force my presence upon him. While this wounded me more than I dared express, I was well aware of my good friend’s sensibilities, and knew that I had damaged the trust between us. I left him be. Mary tried to gently talk me into sending him a wire, into suggesting a meeting between us to discuss the Hamilton affair, but did not insist on it once I had turned her down. I felt excommunicated and thought it to be—at least in some part— deserved.

Feeling the urge to be of some distant use, I embarked on fulfilling the request Holmes had made to me, and set to befriend the Hamiltons. Mary, Miranda, Thomas and I met for a luncheon two days following my confrontation with James. All that Thomas had received from his attack was a mottled bruise below his eye and a story that he imparted upon us with a thrill. As usual, he was warm, friendly, and his charm filled the room with ease; however, I could not separate myself from hearing James’ words over and over in my head.  _ He makes every angry, hateful voice inside me go quiet,  _ James had said and, watching the way Thomas interacted with the world, I began to understand. I began to see how his presence was enticing, how it drew one in, how it made one cast aside all that one could know to be good and proper. I recognised this presence because I had seen it before; in fact, I could scarcely go a day without thinking about it. The memory of Holmes’ words jolted through my mind from years past. All the times he has had quite the same effect upon me. But, such beautiful memories quickly become smothered by his dismissal of me; the pain on his face as he told me to leave Baker Street. The comparison between the two men made something cold settle in my chest.

And then, Thomas’ eyes met my own, and it was like he could see deep into my very soul. I had to break the contact with his knowing gaze. I could not bear the uncomfortable twist of shame, coiling deep and ugly, like a venomous snake at the base of my neck.

Mary and Miranda seemed to be blind and deaf to the goings on about them. On Thomas’ face, I saw the same fondness and happiness that I felt in my own heart, looking at them. It did not escape my notice how, obscured by their soup bowls to anyone else, their hands shared the briefest touch. 

Falling into a friendship with the Hamiltons came to Mary and I quick and easy. Soon enough, twice-weekly outings were a habit for the four of us, though Thomas could not always join us due to his growing work engagements. Miranda took Mary and I to countless art exhibitions. Neither of them seemed to mind that I was not as knowledgeable about art, and Miranda explained to me patiently how one was to recognise Dutch from French masters, about the symbolism within religious murals and the difference in brushstrokes between Turner and Rosetti. She introduced us to the works of countless female artists whose names were rarely spoken–Marie Spartali Stillman, Evelyn de Morgan, and Emma Sandys. Mary was enraptured with this and, knowing of my own wife’s artistic tendencies, my heart burst with joy for her. Often, I would catch Miranda looking at Mary instead of the paintings we were there to see, as if Mary were the only work of art that truly mattered.

The days when Thomas could join us in our outings were nothing short of joyous. Time in his company helped me forget my growing unease of the case, and of my broken down relationship with Holmes. He took us to bookshops tucked away in the very gutters of London, where a lordly foot may have never set itself before. He gained us access to grand mansions so we could examine their art collections, and doors seemed to open at the mere mention of his name. Even though the young Lord was still viewed as an eccentric and dangerous radical by some, the younger populace of London was keen for his approval and presence. 

One evening, Miranda and Thomas appeared at mine and Mary’s doorstep with tickets to a new play at the Criterion. The Hamiltons led us to their private box, and sat themselves to both sides of myself and Mary, Thomas on my right and Miranda to my wife’s left. They provided us with opera glasses, encrusted with jewels. Thomas, I had found, put things of immense value in our hands with terrifying ease, and seemed to not much care whether he got them back. 

The play was nothing short of terrible—hackneyed and unfunny—and I found myself quite bored by the time for the intermission. Only, Thomas and Miranda, having reached the same conclusion as to the quality of the spectacle, leaned in through to us and began whispering verses of their own to complement what was happening on stage. Their additions were crudely inappropriate, and belly-achingly hilarious. Mary and I had to stop ourselves from laughing out loud while the damsel in distress was being murdered in quite brutal fashion onstage. 

To say that we developed a friendship with the Hamiltons would not do justice to describe the fondness I had begun to feel for them. I was aware, in the back of my mind, that there was a dangerous game afoot—and I did observe with care any time Thomas spoke of his work, for signs on whether he felt that he was in danger—but their easy humour, careful dispositions, and shrewdness helped me forget the darkness that was encroaching by the corners of our eyes. Indeed, I felt freed in their presence, now with the weight of secrecy lifted from my chest. We had, of course, not spoken aloud of our predicaments—though I doubt the Hamiltons would have minded—however, it had become a habit after dining at the Hamilton mansion for myself and Thomas to retreat to the parlour to discuss politics, philosophy and literature over a glass of port. Mary and Miranda, we left to their own devices. Thomas’ company was invigorating—often, if he had had a glass too many, he would launch into an argument with no one in particular, about any topic that was crossing his mind. I was content to listen, perhaps even interject with an argument or two of my own, even if just to play devil’s advocate. These evenings would run past us, warm, slow, and lazy like honey, and we would only be reminded of the late hour by the chime of the Hamiltons’ clock. 

On our way home, I could see the sheer happiness in my wife’s eyes. I could tell, from the way her braid was slightly askew or a button that had been left unbuttoned in haste, that her relationship with Miranda had progressed favourably. I did not ask—and did my best to be happy for her. 

I attempted to deliver some observations to Holmes after my outings with Thomas and Miranda, desperately hoping that it would bridge the void between us. My friend was drawn and distant and dismissed me abruptly.

“This is of no relevance to me any longer, Watson. Do not feel obliged to continue your association with the Hamiltons any further—insights into their mundane lives are not what I am in need of at present.”

The statement burned me, for I felt like I had failed by doing what Holmes had asked of me. I assumed, from his words, that he had let the case go—though I still could not fathom what it was that seemed to keep him away from his rooms at Baker Street throughout the days, for he was rarely there when I called to check on him. I let him be, though it pained me.

On the eve of Hogmanay, Thomas and Miranda invited us to a celebration at their estate in Kent. It was a lavish occasion, with food and drink flowing freely, hearty jigs entertaining us all throughout the night and a young, enraptured crowd ready to engage in stimulating conversations about the future of the world. For once, Thomas did not seem to be interested in conversation, and seemed settled to have fun all through the night. He invited my Mary to a dance, and Miranda and I both laughed at how uncoordinated our usually graceful friend looked while moving under the tune of the music. James McGraw, lo and behold, was also present—I assumed, corralled by Thomas to join the celebrations. I had only seen him once or twice since that fateful morning, in very rushed, quick moments on his way in or out of the Hamiltons’ house, and there had always been a peculiar kind of anxiety set in his shoulders and in the stern lines of his face. This evening, he was just as quiet as he often was, however there was an ease about him that I had not seen before. Perhaps, he had realised that I had no intention of hurting or betraying him in any way; perhaps it was the warmth of the sweet wine Miranda told us they had gotten from France; perhaps it was the way Thomas leaned in to whisper something in his ear on occasion. I gave him a polite nod when our eyes met across the hall and the corner of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. His gaze returned to Thomas’ flailing limbs, and the unbridled fondness I saw there took my breath away for a moment.

At the eleventh hour, all the guests retreated to the sprawling gardens of the estate. Thomas had arranged for a spectacular show of fire dancers, who swallowed flames and danced on hot coals with their bare feet. I had never seen anything quite like it. 

“Oh, John, is it not just incredible?” Mary asked, though it was more rhetorical in nature. I squeezed her arm in affirmation before she turned away to return to Miranda.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see James. His auburn hair and beard glowed with the embers of the fire as he stood a good distance away from the enraptured crowd, partly veiled in the dancing shadows. I noticed then, the fluid movement behind him and Thomas’ taller figure materialised. I could not make out his face, however his pale hand and a delicate wrist set themselves on the Lieutenant’s navy blue sleeve. James looked around, as if to spot any prying eyes—thankfully, he did not catch me observing—and then turned around to take Thomas’ hand in his, their fingers twining together with practiced ease. The sight of it made my chest ache. As if like clockwork, Holmes’ voice rang in my thoughts. How unfeeling and cold his words to me in past months had been, in contrast with the times before the Earl of Ashbourne entered his door. I had written of his cold demeanour, but that was more so a dramatisation—a caricature—of the detective I knew so intimately. Now, I wondered if I knew the man at all. If such fanciful daydreams of the affection James and Thomas shared could ever reach me in reality, when I was rather incapable of removing Sherlock Holmes from my mind. Thomas pulled James in the direction of the darkness and together they sank into it, disappearing from my sight. 

I breathed deeply, and told myself that the sting in my throat was from the cold air alone. Two steps away from me, Miranda and Mary stood and watched the show, their arms linked together. Miranda’s hand, I could see, was resting on Mary’s in, what to foreign eyes, would seem a normal gesture between friends. I saw, then, a matching small ring that I was now well aware of also adorned Miranda’s little finger. 

My eyes stared at the dancing lights in front of me, unobservant. As the crowd broke into  _ Auld Lang Syne  _ and greeted 1895, I felt a peculiar ache inside my heart, craving for a well-known presence beside me. I continued to think of Thomas’ and James’ hands, fitting together like well-worn puzzle pieces, of the matching rings on Mary and Miranda’s fingers, and the yearning in my soul was torturous. I hoped, I prayed to whoever would listen, that in the coming year I would find the bravery in my heart to do what I had so desperately longed for in these past years. That perhaps, someday in the future months, I could take a well known hand within mine, and whisper dreams into his skin. How foolish was I? To think that a man such as Sherlock Holmes would ever find such wishes to be anything, save for the fanciful delusions of a lonely man. I should be grateful that he did not forcibly remove me from his life, and rather dismissed me at a slow pace. Perhaps that was the sole decency I could be allowed.

Little did I know just how fateful 1895 would turn out to be for us all. 

* * *

Several days after our Hogmanay gathering, a messenger boy knocked upon mine and Mary’s door. Lieutenant McGraw, he informed me breathily, was requesting my company at the Red Lion public house at seven o’clock. He handed me a wire with much the same content, inscribed in James’ elegant hand. 

The message puzzled me. Although James and I were no longer at a stage where we were to come to blows, I had gotten the feeling that he avoided my company with intention. Now, he was asking for it freely. I could sense the urgency in this request, and I got the lingering feeling that something was brewing underneath its surface.

“I see no reason why you should not go,” Mary remarked when I shared the message with her. “You and Thomas have become friends, now, and I am sure the Lieutenant recognises this. You will be in a public space, and the impression that I have of the gentleman is that, although brusk, he is an honest man. If you are concerned about danger in this meeting, you should inform Holmes, my dear.”

I considered her words but then dismissed the suggestion—Holmes had made it more than clear that he was no longer interested in the Hamilton affair, and the brief interactions I had had with him in the weeks prior confirmed this. I was not about to make myself look more of a fool in front of him. Besides, the essence of what James may have wished to discuss with me could involve topics Holmes need not be privy to, for all our sakes.

This was how I found myself—this time not dressed in a warm, uncomfortable disguise, but with the chilling absence of Holmes by my side—headed to the Red Lion, just seven months after my first visit there.

James was sitting at the same table where he had been seated with his superior officer last time. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, filled with amber ale. I got myself a scotch from the unassuming bartender, and sat opposite him with a quiet greeting, awaiting him to begin the conversation. 

It was only when I got the chance to take a closer look at him, did I realise just how he had aged in the months I had not seen him. There were dark, heavy circles under his eyes that spoke of many sleepless nights. Wrinkles and worry lines seemed to have formed on his forehead and his face–already pale by nature–seemed almost ghostly white under the sparse light of the pub. Were Holmes here, he would be able to establish the precise reasoning of James’ emotional distress. To my eyes, he simply looked like a man in need of a long, long rest. 

“Our work is entering a most crucial stage,” he began after a long deliberation. “Thomas is certain that he will be able to garner enough support among his peers to push the plan at least through the Commons. I would be inclined to agree; he yields a considerable influence among many of the MPs, many of which are former schoolmates of his. There is already talk among Whigs, about utilising Thomas’ work for their own benefit: they believe that a breaking down of the stigma around sodomy would aid in their mission to further undermine the Queen, and increase the influence of Parliament.”

I looked around, cautious that even in places like these, walls had ears. “Dear Lord, man, lower your voice.”

James’ lip curled. “I am well aware of my surroundings, Doctor Watson. All I have said will become a matter of public record very soon; perhaps before the week is over. No silence or darkness will be able to hide the motivations of all those involved in this project. Mine and Thomas’ included.”

He did not seem perturbed by this, he simply stated it as a fact. I let him continue.

“Once we are through the Commons, the Lords will be the far more significant hurdle. There is where Thomas and I will come to blows with the Earl of Ashbourne.” James sucked in a breath in disgust that he did not bother to hide. “Thomas does command respect among nobility, however many are aware that he is no Earl yet, and that his father yields powerful connections with industrial and trading organisations. Many of the Lords’ incomes rely on these, and they are aware that the Earl will not shy away from using his influence to strip them of a portion of their riches for good.”

I felt some of James’ indignance boil over into my own blood. Even if that were to happen, these Lords would still possess considerable wealth—in fact, so much so that they would easily be able to buy back their influence amongst Alfred Hamilton’s partners. I knew this, and James did as well, as we had both rubbed shoulders with enough of the landed gentry. The part of me that angered at this inequality did not often come to the light, but in James’ presence, I felt it dragged out of me. 

“I doubt this will be about loss of income, James, but rather about falling out of favour with the Earl.”

James nodded. “You are quite correct. Indeed, the loss of income for many of them would be but the equivalent of you or me dropping a halfpenny on the street. However, Alfred Hamilton can weave treachery and deceit like no one I have ever known. With one word, their sons and daughters will no longer be allowed in Eton. With one word, their wives will no longer be allowed to frequent their favourite coffee houses. With one word, they will no longer have access to the parlours of the most powerful men in this country.”

“So, what are we to do?” A buzz of energy ran through me, whether it be excitement or fear, I could not say.

“We convince them.” James’ eyes burned with the colour of sea glass, holding a passion I instantly recognised from Thomas Hamilton’s gaze. “Convince them that the Earl’s influence will not hurt them as gravely as they think; that a vote supporting this plan will, in the long term, win them the favours of men whose word is heavier than that of the Earl of Ashbourne. Thomas is certain that he already has at least five Lords on his side; and he is yet to even open his mouth to make an argument. I, on my part, will lobby the Admiralty. Several of my superiors have significant sway over the House of Lords, perhaps enough to parallel that of Alfred Hamilton. I believe they will listen if I am to make my argument to them.”

I raised my eyebrows in puzzlement. “The Admiralty? Why would the Navy care about the decriminilisation of sodomy?”

James’ smile was bitter, unhappy. “Sodomy and blackmail between homosexuals has been a long-standing problem of Her Majesty’s Navy, Doctor Watson. It is an epidemic very much only discussed behind closed doors, yet those in the highest echelons of the Admiralty are well aware of it. More than one capable Captain has been brought down on accusations of sodomy, be they founded or not, and many more will share the same fate, should Thomas’ plan not become reality.” He huffed and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, no one in the Navy cares even remotely about who fucks whom. My superior and ward, Admiral Hennessey—the man you saw me sitting with on this very table—has known that I take the windward passage since I was seventeen years old. I doubt that he is the only one with that knowledge.”

“Your superiors know?” I gawked. “And they do not care?”

“I am their most capable tactician, and extremely useful in combat. They cannot afford to lose me for something as commonplace as buggery.” The ease with which James made this statement sat unpleasantly in my chest. “I am not saying it could not be used as a weapon against me if someone would wish to do so, however I have walked on this particular knife’s edge for years. With some luck, I will not have to do so for very long. That is not something I need your help with, Doctor.”

“Well pray tell, my good man, what  _ do  _ you need my help with? For as impressed as I am by your and Thomas’ efforts, I fail to see why you have called me here.”

James tilted his chin up. “Thomas is hosting a salon in two days’ time, during which he will present his work to the Peers within his inner circle. It will be a challenging task, one that he is preparing for vicariously.” Once again, James’ eyes fixed on me, sharp and discerning. “I am here to ask you—to beg of you—to convince your friend Sherlock Holmes to abandon his attempts of sabotaging Thomas’ efforts.” 


	9. IX

James’ plainly put request hit me over the head like a mallet. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare at him—his serious eyes and the tight set curve of his mouth. I tried to digest the information he had just given me, tried to find any reason, any reason at all why he may have gotten the wrong end of the stick. 

“My—” I cleared my throat and finished my scotch in one go. It burned down my throat, and helped me restore my faculties at least somewhat. “Dear fellow, I am aghast at this assumption. Sherlock Holmes is trying to sabotage your efforts?” _My_ _Sherlock Holmes?_ I did not add because he was not mine, he never was and probably never would be again. 

James narrowed his eyes as he studied my face. I feared what it was that he could see there, but I was in no state to keep up my tightly controlled facade. Something inside me was slipping, like a cascading landslide into an open sea. “Are you feeling well, Doctor Watson?” There was genuine concern in his question. I exhaled noisily.

“Forgive me, my friend. I am— Well, to say that I am shocked at your assertion would be an understatement. I admit, Holmes and I have—” This hurt me more than I could put into words. I did not know how to explain the precarious space that Holmes and I had been occupying for the last few months. The way he dismissed my very existence by way of studying decade old case files rather than look me in the eye. As if my repulsive nature—the very thing driving me to protect James and the Hamiltons—upset him so that he could not bring himself to acknowledge my form in front of him. I had no idea how to voice any of it. “We have not seen eye to eye on the Hamilton affair, so he has asked me to step back from it.”

Something flashed in James’ eyes, something like regret. “Was this because of our... altercation?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. His mind is difficult to parse, even on his charitable days.” I sighed deeply, running a hand through my hair. “These are serious accusations, James. Are you insinuating that perhaps Holmes is working for Alfred Hamilton still, looking to undermine Thomas? For I tell you, he disliked the man quite blatantly, and the last I heard of him, he was not concerning himself with it any longer.”

“I cannot know what his motivations are. All I know is what I have seen.” James rubbed his beard as he was clearly deep in thought. “I have trained my eye to recognise suspicious circumstances whenever I am around Thomas. Even more so since his— since the attack on him. It is not that I am acting as his bodyguard, however I feel it is my duty to be mindful of his surroundings, both for his safety, and for the safety of our work.” 

I could tell James was picking his words with care, perhaps to spare my feelings. I so wished that he would not do me the courtesy, but I let him continue.

“Over the last few months I have begun to notice— suspicious individuals following myself and Thomas when we are out and about. At first, I assumed this to just nothing but common paranoia; anxiety is running high in both of us right now. Then, I thought it to be your doing. I assumed that after what I had revealed to you, you were looking to catch Thomas and I—” James cuts off and looks around him again, though even I am struggling to hear him over the cacophony of voices in the Red Lion. Despite his reassurances that the Navy was easy on sodomy, I noticed that he was being extremely cautious of the way he spoke of Thomas in public. “Which would have been a wasted effort anyway. We are both very careful.” 

“James,” I started, feeling somewhat hurt by the accusation. “Surely you must now know, I never would have—”

James stopped me with a raised palm. “I do apologise for the assumption, Doctor Watson, but you must realise, I could not see who else would like to track our every move. And then, one day, I saw your friend, observing myself and Thomas taking lunch at the Guillemot. He was in disguise, however I still managed to recognise him. You might want to pass it on to him that his eyes are far too distinctive to deceive.”

I could not say that James’ statement surprised me. Holmes—while skilled in the art of disguise—was undoubtedly singular in his features, and I had become rather skilled in picking him out of a crowd. For someone as observant as James to have done the same did not shock me. Despite the importance of matters before me, I could not stop my mind from wandering to think of the times such facades had fooled me—namely, when he approached me almost one year ago now to reveal himself as alive. How overtaken by shock and grief I was then, but more than anything, I felt relief. Such overwhelming relief in his return, now ripped from me by my own reckless missteps. I wondered if he preferred it—spying, looking for clues, working—without me; without the foolish biographer at his heel, gawking at his every word. I recentred myself in the present with force, unable to contemplate the horror bubbling up in my throat. 

“I—I will… attempt to contact him about such matters.” 

“This was only the first time it had come into my notice but after that, I started seeing him. He had his eyes on us, Doctor Watson, and it made me rather uncomfortable.” James’ face was hard, as if it were carved of iron. He had not, I assumed, forgiven Holmes yet for the brawl at Baker Street. “And then, all of a sudden, Thomas and I were faced with Lord Harcourt telling us that he could no longer support us. Lord Willoughsby. Lord Mortimer. Three votes that Thomas had worked hard for, now gone. Incidentally, three votes of three Lords who had attended a dinner hosted by Mycroft Holmes a week prior.” 

I had not heard the name Mycroft Holmes in some time. Holmes himself rarely mentioned his elder brother, save for when he was forced to work with him in cases surrounding the area of government for which Mycroft was employed. The brothers were not fond of one another, and Mycroft was far more attached to bureaucracy than my friend was. 

“Holmes does not enjoy working with his brother in even minor capacities. He often spoke to me of the unending resentment he held for his politically obsessed elder brother, often dismissing cases that would force them to work together. I doubt, quite a lot, that he would employ Mycroft as a liaison for political sabotage.”

“Truly? You truly believe this?” James’ eyebrow raised quizzically. “You believe your associate is beyond using all means necessary to achieve his goals?”

The accusatory nature of his words perplexed me for a moment, before I cleared my throat to respond.

“I suppose you are right. Holmes is quite determined in his goals, but…” I trailed off, lost in thought. It was painful on its own for him to reject my offers to help with a cold expression and a dismissal, but it was another in entirety for him to aid in the Earl’s efforts to destroy Thomas. I wished, more than anything in that moment, to feel anger at the thought. I wanted to feel a rage course through me at the potential of betrayal alone, but I could not. Instead, a warm, aching sadness ran through my veins, reaching my fingertips. Did I not know the man I had spent so many years with at all? Was I unfamiliar with his morals, his passions, so much so that I could have allowed him to terrorise the very people I am akin to? “But, I will confront him about this matter in haste.”

James reached into the pocket of his coat, his expression grave. “I assume this might make my argument more persuasive.” He took out a folded piece of paper and passed it over to me. I could see, then, that his hand was trembling, as he forced himself to say: “This is a note addressed to Thomas, with a message for him.” And indeed, on top of the folded paper, it said  _ Thomas Hamilton  _ in an unfamiliar script. “It was delivered to him while he—while he was visiting me in my rooms. Whoever wrote it knew that they would find Thomas there, with me. Pray tell, Doctor Watson, how many people do you think are privy to the information where my rooms are, and that Thomas spends time there?” His jaw was working as he spoke, his eyes shining in the dim light. He was furious, I realised; furious at the author of this letter who had received a glance into what James held so close to his heart. Despite my apparent inability to feel rage toward Holmes, James McGraw seemed to have enough of it for both of us. 

My own hand was shaking as I opened the letter. 

_ T. H. (care of J. M.) _

_ Abort your actions immediately or consequences will be dire for you & yours. The knife _ — _ when it comes for you _ — _ will be sharp and unexpected and there will be no one to protect you from it. Do not let your ambition drive you to your grave. _

The words were plain upon the page, and James was right. I could think of no one, save Sherlock Holmes, who could have the knowledge to send such a correspondence to James’ rooms. The same, familiar ache grew ever stronger in my chest, as I resigned myself to what I must do.

* * *

I no longer kept my key to Baker Street on my person on a regular basis. Most days, to do so would be to do nothing but remind me of the absence that stung so sharp, and marred every waking second. So, as I approached the front step of the apartments I once called home, my fingers twitched nervously, coiled with anxiety.

Mrs. Hudson let me up with little fuss, asking the typical small talk questions of an acquaintance she had not seen in many weeks now. I attempted a performance of positivity—in the face of what confrontation waited for me up the seventeen steps to 221B—but something in her familiar expression told me she could read the unease in my heart. Soon enough, the kind housekeeper retired back to her own rooms, to leave me to the fateful conversation before me. 

I ventured up the staircase, knocked upon the parlour door, and all of a sudden, there he was. 

“Hello, Watson. Do come in.” His words were clipped, cut off—impatient. As though my presence was something he was obliged to accept, rather than something he wanted. It stung in my chest, and I swallowed down the embarrassment. Physically, he appeared as normal as he always did—black waistcoat neatly buttoned over a stark white shirt, piercing eyes boring into me, and pointed features defined in the sunlight. I would have even gone as far as to say he looked well, thriving as he had not been when he returned from three years of solitude, wracked with malnutrition and exhaustion. In the year since, he had recovered almost to the full extent of his prowess, but something sinister and dark lay beneath his expression now. Something that carved indented wounds into me with precision and intent. 

“Holmes, I am uncertain if you have gathered the reason for my visit by some unspoken observation, but I do not wish to keep you long. I wanted to—”

“Do not take me for a fool, Watson, I beg of you. Just answer me this: is James McGraw using your connection with me to convey a message he is too cowardly to deliver himself?” The harshness lining his words did not go unnoticed, and I stared back at him in bemused silence for a moment.

“I—No. Not at all. While I did indeed meet with James this afternoon, the message I came here to deliver is one of my own invention.” It was not a lie, as I was filled with concern for Thomas and Miranda of my own, perhaps one to rival that of James and Mary. If Holmes was in any way putting them in danger, I wanted to do my due diligence in stopping it. I owed them this much. 

“I see. Do, please, relay it. I do not have all day to spend stepping over social niceties, especially with you.” Whether he meant that as a slight, or an indication of some still-present intimacy between us, I could not tell. Instead, I forced the prepared words from my throat.

“Have you continued work for the Earl of Ashbourne in the last six months?”

A scoff fell from Holmes’ lips as he lowered himself to his chair. It was then that I noticed—the seat I so often referred to as mine, that few others sat upon in my years of work with Holmes, was gone. My mind raced with panicked thoughts. I had not formally called Baker Street home since my marriage in 1889, and yet my chair had always remained in its same resolute spot. What had driven him to rid himself of it? Had it been sold, or moved to a different room? I could not ruminate on such things for long, however, as I spotted Sherlock Holmes opening a small syringe case. Beside it, was a familiar vial holding—what I assumed was—a seven per-cent solution of cocaine. He prepared the syringe in a swift motion, rolling up his left sleeve, and plunging the needle into the curve of his arm. A contented sigh fell from him, and my heart lurched. 

A different, protective sorrow burned into me, and it was only then that I noticed the dark circles formed beneath his eyes. His erratic sleep had always shown on his face from time to time, but this was unlike anything I had seen before. Worse even than his weary form upon his return to London twelve months prior. Any confrontational part of me died in my mouth as a deep worry for my dear friend replaced it.

“Holmes, are you quite all right?” I asked, no accusation in my tone.

“Excellent, now. Why do you ask? I thought you had a message to deliver, not a patient to treat. Besides, I do not think I have made an appointment at your practice as of late.” 

Given his condition, I could not gather if he intended to sting me with his chipper words, or if they were the jovial musings of an altered man. 

“Please, Holmes, do not disregard my concern as though I have not called you my friend for many years now.” At that, he recoiled in his seat.

“And who else have you elected to call friends of yours, now? Thomas Hamilton? The young Lord, who wants to change the world, yet is unable to even change the situation in his own home? Or is it James McGraw,  _ James  _ as you now so choose to call him?” He said James’ name as if it was toxic to his tongue, a contaminant to be expelled. It was not possible for me to know if that was due to my attachment to him, or what other fateful knowledge he now held of the Lieutenant. “I suppose I have always been more patient to you than friend, but you appear more eager to show it now than you have been in the past. Yes,  _ Doctor _ , I am quite well. Now, please, I have quite an eventful afternoon ahead of me with my chemistry set, and I must beg you to finally get on with whatever it was you came here to say.”

I swallowed the horrific agony in my chest, and hoped to the Lord that I could escape the Hell of this conversation unscathed. I did not think it plausible that my prayer would be answered.

“In regards to any efforts you may have made in recent months to assist the Earl of Ashbourne in denoting Thomas Hamilton’s political efforts, I would like to ask you to cease them now. If not for their sakes, then for mine. You do not have to work with me, call me a friend, or even call me your biographer, if it is not your wish to do so. But, I beg of you, as one last show of kindness to me, to please stay away from the Hamiltons and let them be.” To say such things aloud took a toll on me, and I found myself looking for a haven upon the chaise lounge along the opposite wall to Holmes. 

An extended silence spread between us, and I watched Holmes’ face contort into one not of contempt, or defense, but of pointed pain.

“What could have led you to believe such a preposterous thing like that, Watson? What kind of fool do you take me for?” His questions did not seem to demand an answer. Each word off his tongue appeared as another layer of armour and masonry between us.

“Thomas received a rather unsettling piece of correspondence the other day—a threat—that was unmarked, and reached him in a location very few people could know he would have been present in at that time. With your contacts, Mycroft especially, I thought that perhaps you—”

“Get out.” The words were pronounced through gritted teeth, and were so quiet I barely heard them at first. Still, they made my stomach feel as if it were full of ice. 

“What? Holmes, I—”

“Leave these rooms, Watson. I do not wish to hear such things any longer.”

I stood from my seat with a start, unable to comprehend the man in front of me. Before I could think to reply, to think anything at all, I left Baker Street and walked until I could not walk anymore. 

The winter air bit at my cheeks as I collapsed onto a nearby bench, and the emotions I had been running from caught up to my mind all at once. Was I angry, or hurt? Perhaps both, but what of the source of such emotion? I could not tell if the panic rising in my lungs was one of pain from rejection of a friend known for so long. Or, rather, of the idea that such a man could now be using his power and influence to destroy the lives of people I now cared deeply for. If he had been innocent, he would be the first person to provide me evidence of such. He despised conjecture, and held truth above all other things. There was only one conclusion you could get from that interaction: Holmes was guilty. And if I was so foolish to be unable to predict this course of action, how could I predict the next? Once he fulfilled his goals with the Earl, what target would he choose next? Perhaps the lowly, foolish doctor he holds so many intimate details of? 

Whatever sorrow I felt about the matter quickly diverted into anger. Anger at Holmes, or myself, it did not matter, as it was present all the same. I was angry that I allowed my emotions to burden me, and even more so that I allowed my attachment to Holmes to grow to such lengths that his cold words could wound me as they did. More than anything, however, I felt a searing rage toward the Earl of Ashbourne for starting this. How dare a man with such power use his influence to shatter the lives of those he called family? How dare he employ Holmes and myself as unknowing participants in his cruel scheme? Had he managed to convince Holmes to join him? Is that why the man who used to hold nothing but contempt for the Earl now worked alongside him? 

The frenzy now coursing through me overtook the terror from before, and pushed me off the bench to face the next phase of what felt like a battle just beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more chapter until the end of act one! i hope you enjoyed :)


	10. X

Just as James had said, Thomas held his salon two days after these events. Mary and I were invited, of course—Miranda extended the invitation over a luncheon, saying that Thomas would very much appreciate the friendly faces—however we politely declined. It was not for a lack of support for Thomas’ venture, but rather a reluctance on both our parts to get more embroiled in the political side of the Hamilton affair than we already were. I had already imparted the content of my conversation with James and my confrontation with Holmes on Mary, and they had distressed her nearly as deeply as they had unsettled me. We both decided that, in the interest of our safety and that of Thomas and Miranda, we were to take a step back. 

“It is just for the time being,” I attempted to calm both our weary minds, though even I could hear the empty platitude of my own words. “Just until Thomas’ proposal goes through. It is too dangerous for me to be this close to it, Mary—especially considering Holmes’ involvement. I—” I could not finish the sentence; I did not say that my main worry was that the Hamilton affair would conclude with me being forced to choose between the Hamiltons and my dear friend. Of course, this was a choice I did not even have to hesitate with—for no matter how cold our feelings had grown, I would still choose him before anyone else in this world—yet it still hurt me to my very core.

I could see how weathered and solemn Mary grew with every day she spent away from Miranda. Oftentimes I would catch her staring in the distance, her hand mindlessly spinning the ring on her little finger again and again. It broke my heart to see her like this. I could tell the depth of her affections for Miranda grew stronger every day. So, I did my best to distract her. We took long walks in Hyde Park, regular luncheons, and even a weekend trip to Bristol. The shadow hanging over us was dark and sprawling, yet we did our best to stay as far away from it as we could. 

I did not contact Holmes. I wish I had a more sophisticated reason than cowardice in the face of our last encounter, yet I did not have one. I could still feel the anger coursing deep within me, yet some—if not most of it—had now evolved into grief. I missed him so terribly, it felt like an open wound in the middle of my gut, bleeding out every ounce of joy he used to bring me.

Yet, I ignored it, and waited. I did not know what it was I waited for, but I did so nevertheless.

* * *

Two months passed since our last interaction with the Hamiltons, and my state of perpetual waiting was wearing thin every second. I had heard nary a peep from them about Thomas’ project and James had not made any more attempts to contact me either. I felt as if the Lieutenant was my only way into finding out the progress of the whole affair but I dared not approach him. I still vividly remembered the blithering rage on his face when he revealed someone had knowledge of his rooms—I did not wish to risk intruding on him in such a manner. 

It seems, though, that the Hamilton affair was about to crash back into our lives. 

On an April afternoon, as Mary and I were taking our lunch, the doorbell sounded, breaking us out of our comfortable routine. Both of us stilled, and I knew that my wife’s heart was beating as wildly as mine was. We did not get many folk calling in on us; unless it was the postie, this was definitely something of import.

Our housekeeper came into our dining room. “A Lady Miranda Hamilton here to see—”

Mary did not let her finish. She immediately stood from her chair, her face pale and drawn. 

“Mary, wait—”

But nothing I could have said would have stopped her. My wife rushed into the parlour and I followed her to find Miranda, dressed in a dazzling green gown.

“Miranda!” Mary wrapped her in a warm embrace and held her close. “Dear God, Miranda, it is ever so lovely to see you.” I knew my wife well enough—I could see her holding on to Miranda slightly longer than was necessary for a typical friendship. I could not beseech her for it, for Miranda seemed to be holding on just as tight. 

“Mary—” There was something different, I realised, about Miranda’s voice. It was only when I got a good look at her did I realise that she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her face spoke of anxiety that we had not before seen within her.

“Dear God, Miranda,” I spoke, getting closer to her. “Please, come and join us in our parlour for a cup of tea. I insist.” 

Mary seemed unwilling to let go of Miranda still, her hand hovering around Lady Hamilton’s elbow. Miranda, on her part, only nodded, with a deep sigh.

“That would be for the best, dear Watsons. For I have news to impart, news of the utmost importance to all our futures.” She looked at Mary and grasped her hands. “My dearest. I am ever so sorry it took me so long to come to you. But now that I am here, I must warn you.” She looked at me now as well, seeming utterly terrified. “I must warn you both of the danger we all now face.”

I ran a hand over my face and took a deep breath. I felt that this was only the beginning of a tumultuous time for all involved in this unique set of circumstances. Once again, I found myself wishing Holmes was here, for I missed his grounding presence more than I could possibly express. I followed Miranda and Mary to our parlour, my legs feeling as if they were made of lead.

Once she was settled on our settee with a cup of tea in her hand, Miranda seemed to find the strength to begin her account.

“I must apologise to you both for the silence that you have received from myself and Thomas over these last few months,” she began. “I assure you, this is not because of any breakdown in our affection for you both. We—and Thomas asked me to relay this to you verbatim—still consider you both very much our close friends and we would hope it is much the same for you.”

“But Miranda, of course.” Mary caught Miranda’s hand and held it close. I did not miss the way their fingers linked together. “The separation was partly our decision, too. John and I— we felt that your political work was too important for us to meddle in. We do not hold you or Thomas at fault for anything.” 

I nodded, confirming my wife’s words.

Miranda’s eyes widened. “Meddle with? Dearest Mary, you could never— your presence has always been wanted  _ and  _ needed with us, dear Watsons. But, we could also fully understand why you would need to step back from us, considering Thomas’ work was entering such a delicate stage.” She looked at me. “James filled me in on your conversation, Doctor Watson. I am aware you both know what our political moves have been.”

“Indeed we do, Miranda—James imparted these with the utmost detail, although I still struggle to wrap my mind around some of it.” I crossed my legs, taking a sip of my own tea. “Pray, how was Thomas’ salon? Did he manage to garner the support from the Lords that he was so hoping for?”

Miranda’s mouth pressed in a thin line. “Unfortunately, he did not. Many of the Lords in our parlour had left halfway through his argument. The moment he mentioned the word  _ homosexuals _ , John—oh, you should have seen the looks on their faces.” I could see that she was shaking with anger now. “These men, who love to boast about being radical thinkers alongside Thomas, have stepped back when he needed their help! Disgraceful behaviour; I was so ashamed on their behalf to see it and I felt such grief for Thomas, for his work seemed to all but crumble before his eyes.”

“So all is lost?” Mary cried out in anguish. “Thomas’ plan is not to be?”

“Not quite, my dear.” Miranda squeezed Mary’s hand. “An old friend of Thomas’ has joined us in our efforts. A man with significant sway over the House of Lords—perhaps enough to rival that of Alfred Hamilton himself. He has been working with us, these past few months and his assistance has been indispensable.”

I could not be happy about this news, though I knew that it was supposed to be positive, as Miranda’s haunted face did not escape me. “Miranda, it sounds like despite the hurdles in the way the plan is progressing as it should. Why were you so distressed when you came to us this morning?”

A small “oh” left Miranda’s lips and she took a sip of her tea to steady herself, her free hand catching Mary’s again. She took a deep breath and looked at me. “Doctor Watson, I have come here to request something of you.”

With a sickly feeling, I remembered James’ request from when I last saw him and hoped, prayed, that it was nothing of the sort. “Miranda, if there is anything I can do—”

“Thomas and James, they— they trust you, Doctor. They have both grown fond of you, even if James perhaps does not show it. They would listen to you.” 

“Listen to me?”

“John, you need to ask them to stop their work with the utmost urgency.”

I gawked, speechless. “Miranda, you cannot ask this of me! Surely not!” 

Her voice, when she spoke again, was quiet and grave. “The road they have set themselves upon— it is the road to ruin. I can see it clearly, and I have tried to tell them but they would not listen to me. Thomas— Thomas sees only the righteous in this world, he only sees the fight that is to be fought and won, and he believes that what is true and good will prevail at any cost. It is why I love him. James has always been a pragmatist, on the other hand. He sees the world as it is, he is practical to a fault, and he seeks for the way of action. It is why I love him, too. Yet, his—” Miranda took a deep, shuddering breath. “His love for Thomas has infected him with idealism. I knew this would happen, for they have been inseparable now for almost half a year, yet I did not expect them to resist me so fiercely when I begged them we leave all this behind. They have been going to these  _ trials _ , John— to these blackmail trials. Every time they leave the house, my heart almost gives out with worry for them. One of Thomas’ close friends is to be tried next week at the Old Bailey, a poet and playwright he knew in Oxford after he incriminated himself in his own libel suit. It has shaken him to his core, John, and I can see the effect it is having on him. He is haunted by the evil of the world that he so wishes to change and it hurts James to see it in equal measure. I do not know what to do anymore; they will not listen to me no matter how much I plead. But perhaps— perhaps they will listen to you.” 

I broke my gaze away from Miranda’s face to find that my hands were shaking. The typical calm air of her words was gone, and instead replaced with a palpable fear in every breath. The gravity of the task before me settled in my bones. I had no choice but to attempt to sway them, even if my pleas fell on deaf ears. 

“O-of course, Miranda. I will do my best.”

Miranda took a deep breath, as if she feared my rejection just as much as she feared the consequences of our inaction. Her fingers held Mary’s tightly. “Thomas is— perhaps the more easily amenable of the two. And if Thomas yields, James will too. He will be home, tonight, as James has an urgent appointment with his supervisor at the Admiralty. Please come to us for dinner, John, for I fear that you are now my very last hope of salvation.”

* * *

It took some time to console Miranda in what seemed to be depths of worry and grief that I could not even begin to encompass. With promises that I would be joining her and Thomas for dinner, she left our lodgings. As the evening approached, I dressed myself, hesitant and anxious. I was on my way to St. James to attempt the persuasion of one of the kindest, yet most foolhardy men I had ever met. I knew Thomas would listen to me, for he listened to all who came to him, however whether he would take my words to heart was another matter altogether. 

Just as I prepared to step out the door, I was intercepted by a messenger boy holding a wire. 

“A message for Doctor John Watson?” I accepted the correspondence in kind, and broke the seal. 

_ Watson — _

_ Please come to Baker Street at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same. It is of crucial importance. _

_ Sherlock Holmes _

The clearly deliberate reuse of a phrase I had read upon a telegram from him in the past signaled the significance to me with ease. Holmes needed my help—there was a despair, an urgency to the message that tugged at the very core of me. I was to head to the Hamiltons first, however I could not ignore this plea from my friend, the first sign of a mending between us that I have been anxiously awaiting for all these long months. With this in mind, I decided that a brief stop at Baker Street could not hurt. 

Upon my arrival at 221 Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson greeted me with an anxious face and fidgeting hands.

“Oh, thank Heavens you are here, Doctor Watson! He has been a fright and a half all morning and it has worked me into a state as well. I simply do not know what there is left to console him! Please, please come in.” She took my hat and coat in haste, and I made my way up the stairs. 

“Do not bother to knock, Watson, I beg of you,” Sherlock Holmes said through the cracked door to his quarters. I pushed the door ajar to find him pacing about the parlour, hands running along his face, hair askew. Panic lined his features in a manner I had not seen in him for many months. Immediately, his demeanor made fear flare inside my heart too. He seemed to be uninjured yet his distress was truly great, in many ways. 

“Holmes, what required such urgency from you to call upon me like this?” I made certain to keep any possible annoyance or irritation out of my tone, as our previous interaction still lingered in my mind with a pointed familiarity. I sat myself upon the sofa—my chair’s absence still evident—and watched the undone man before me.

“I…” Holmes trailed off, bringing a hand over his face. His eyes flicked between me and random objects in his rooms, as if he could not put his thoughts in the correct order. He did not seem to know where to begin. “I have reason to believe that Lord Thomas Hamilton is in imminent danger. I cannot tell what precisely this danger may be, or what consequences it holds, all I know is that it will be soon. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. It will spell the end of him, Watson, one way or another and I need your help to save him.”

“Thomas?” I asked. Though I may have sounded surprised, my true emotion was terror. How coincidental, it felt, to have been on the way to speaking to the man in question, only to be intercepted in this way. I wondered if Holmes knew somehow; if he could be aware of Miranda’s begging of me, or aware of my intentions to stop James and Thomas’ efforts. Such musing was useless to me, yet it occurred all the same. “H-How did you discover this, Holmes?”

He averted my interrogating gaze to fetch a cigarette from his case, beginning to fiddle with it in his grasp before striking a match to light it. He took a long inhale of smoke before answering my query. While I suspected him of aiding Alfred Hamilton in his efforts against Thomas, this reaction did not appear to be one of a man intent on revealing the perversions of a young aristocrat. Rather, Holmes appeared fearful, whether for Thomas, himself, or both, I was not sure. 

“I have made many mistakes in the year since my return to the art of detection, Watson. While I am grateful for your lack of publishing of such shortcomings, and do not mind this omission from the public consciousness, I cannot lie to you about such things. Some mistakes were inconsequential to me, just the same as any typical portrayal of human error. Others, however, have proven quite grave indeed.” A deadened expression came over him as he anxiously puffed on his cigarette, staring ahead into the open air of the parlour rather than in my direction. “Perhaps, if you are able to provide warning, your new found friends may be able to traverse to the continent before anything comes of this, before anyone— before the damage wrought is too severe to fix. I cannot mend what I have done, Watson, but I beg of you—”

Holmes’ emotion fueled appeal was interrupted, rather abruptly, by James McGraw storming into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, red in the face with rage.

I had assumed that I had seen rage before. I had assumed to know its face, its fire in a man’s chest. I had felt it myself; towards Mycroft Holmes, towards the Earl of Ashbourne, towards—most of all, perhaps—Professor Moriarty. Try as I might, I could never forget its poisonous grasp upon my throat, the way it wormed into the very essence of my being. As productive as rage could be in certain circumstances, I feared it unlike anything else I had ever feared.

When I saw James McGraw’s face that evening, when I saw the way rage had knitted itself into his very skin, I knew that I had not seen rage before. Not like this. 

In a brief moment, I thought that this role reversal between James and Holmes could seem a ridiculous anecdote for some distant future. I did not have time to ponder this thought, for James charged at Holmes, his face clearly portraying his intent to kill him with his bare hands. I did not, for a second, doubt James’ ability to do so.

To Holmes’ fortune, I was closer. I grabbed James’ arm above his elbow and tugged him back with force, holding him with as much strength as I was capable of. However, I was not the only one; Miranda Hamilton was also right behind him, her hand on James’ other arm. We were now both holding him as he still strained against our combined grasp, heaving himself at Holmes. My friend, on his part, only seemed to be able to look stricken and shocked at this display of wild, feral anger.

“James!” Miranda was the one who spoke. “James, please, calm yourself, he—”

James seemed to be blind and deaf to anyone in the room that wasn’t Holmes. “You were not worthy to clean his shoes!” he spat out, voice tinged with blind fury. Yet, I could hear it breaking and—standing close to him as I was now—I could see James’ eyes glowing with tears that he was doing his best to swallow down. “You were not worthy to breathe his air, to walk the fucking ground he stood on! And now he’s  _ gone  _ and it is  _ your fault _ , Sherlock Holmes!”

Horror shone across Holmes’ features then, worse than what was there before. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed. I elected to ask instead.

“What happened, James?”

James was breathing heavily, as if every single rise and fall of his chest cost him tremendous effort. His burning eyes were fixed on Holmes. 

“He betrayed us. He betrayed Thomas, he— and now, we’re—” his stuttering was so unlike him it shook me to my very core. I did not know if it was grief or anger that caused it, I did not know how he could still stand at the force of it. His arm where I was holding it was trembling.

Miranda spoke, she herself shaken to her core as well. I could see her red-rimmed eyes and her pale face. “They came. While we were preparing to meet you for dinner, John— they came. The Earl’s men.”

“Where have they taken him?” I asked, as if by default. My mind raced elsewhere, however. I looked to Holmes, trembling much the same way as James, as though faced with a terror I had never before seen from him. Was this the face of someone whose plot for betrayal finally reached its crescendo? I certainly did not believe it, but any explanation for it had to wait until the entire story was unveiled. “And for what purpose?”

“Prison. For now.” Miranda’s hand was squeezing James’ bicep gently, as if in an effort to get him to calm down, for he seemed to be close to fainting himself. “He has been arrested on charges of sodomy and gross indecency. He will be tried next week. I—” a small, hitched sob escaped her throat. “I couldn’t stop them, I— they just took him, and he struggled, and they hit him, John and I didn’t— I didn’t want them to—”

Hearing this, all the fight in James seemed to bleed out of him. He had stopped struggling against our grasp, stopped looking as if he wanted to wring Holmes’ neck. Now, I worried he would not be able to stay on his own feet as I directed him to sit on Holmes’ chaise lounge. James sat as directed, barely aware of what his body was doing it seemed, and buried his face in his shaking hands.

“I-I am sorry,” was all Holmes said. I looked over to him, now seated on his chair, much in the same pose as James. “I attempted… I tried to stop it, Lieutenant—”

“Do not call me that,” James snapped, looking up from his hands. He did not cry—maybe he was unable to show himself so vulnerable even in this moment—but his eyes were shining with pain. “As of this afternoon, I am no longer— I have been discharged from the Navy. Dishonourably discharged. Alfred Hamilton himself came to tell my superiors that I—” Miranda walked over behind the chaise to put both hands on James’ shoulders. “My career is over. Because someone told Alfred Hamilton that Thomas and I—” 

“Holmes, what exactly was your role in this? I cannot fathom there to be much risk in informing us of it now,” I interjected, my eyes moving between the two men in duress. I did not come to notice my own trembling until this moment, as my hands attempted to pour brandy into a glass for James. 

“I…” He struggled for a moment, twirling his empty clay pipe in his fingers. “When I sent word to the Earl, all those months ago, to inform him that I needed more time with his case, he did not take kindly to it. He insisted that his family was falling to shambles, and that if I could not solve his problem, I was going to help him in a different capacity to compensate for it. When I refused, he… found other methods to gain my compliance. I did what little I could to delay his efforts, to stop him, but I—” The words seemed to catch in Holmes’ throat.

My heart shattered at his words. All this time, I was under the distinct impression that the man I held in high regard for so long had elected to abandon his past morals for the sake of it. As I watched the facade of composure he so often adorned in recent months fall to the floor, I wanted more than anything to help him pick up the pieces. 

From the lounge, James continued staring at Holmes, emotions rushing across his face so rapidly it made me dizzy. His fingers traced the ridges of the glass that his brandy was in, but he did not take a drink. I could see him thinking, working it out, looking at Holmes with something I could not quite grasp.

Miranda’s hand went to cover her mouth. “He blackmailed you. He—”

“He did what Alfred Hamilton is wont to do,” James said quietly, as if he did not realise he was vocalising his thoughts. “He found a weakness in you and he abused it. He saw where you were at your most tender and stabbed you there, before you even realised.” He exhaled heavily. “He asked you to sabotage— to stop Thomas’ plan from passing the Lords?”

“He knew of my brother before from meetings in Whitehall, possibly in the Diogenes Club, or elsewhere. He knew that my word could persuade my brother to utilise his bureaucratic sway to inform the House of Lords. He was aware, equally, of my own network of informants within the high and low echelons of English society. I returned from the grave just this time last year, and have had few clients since. He gathered, from all of this, that I was in the ideal position to ruin his eldest son.”

“And you did it! Without question!” The rage came back but this time it exploded from Miranda. We all whipped our heads to look at her. “You did not even question it, you just went to ruin a good man, an honest man, who only wanted— You  _ doomed  _ him!” 

“I did not wish to hurt your husband, Lady Hamilton. Watson can attest, after my initial meeting with him, I revered his kind heart and intellect just the same as many others who engage with him. But, Alfred Hamilton knew well what points of my personal life to dig up. He held knowledge and power over me that I could not combat with my dwindling resources since my absence from London. I could not  _ win  _ against a man like that. Not now, in the least. I cannot speak to the depths with which I am sorry, madam, but I can hope that the small misdirections and intentional false leads I sent him upon did something to slow him in his mission. I am unconvinced that anything would stop a man like that with the power he holds.”

Miranda’s legs seemed to be faltering, too, as she moved to sit next to James. She caught one of his hands and held it tightly in hers. James’ gaze was haunted and hollow, he seemed to be a million miles away. There was an odd set to his jaw that unnerved me. I felt like I was no longer looking at the Navy Lieutenant that I had known before. This was a different man, one I did not recognise. 

“I’m not leaving him.”

“James—” Miranda’s tone suggested that this was not a conversation they were having for the first time. 

“I have to get him out. I can’t leave him.”

“They will lock you up just the same. The only reason they didn’t was because Hennessey requested—”

“Holmes summoned me here today to ask that I tell you all to leave for the continent. If the results of Thomas’ trial do not end favourably, I fear that either one of you may become the next target.” I swallowed a near-full glass of brandy in my rattled state, trying anything to slow my shallow breath. I paced between the sofa and Holmes, unsteady. 

“I cannot guarantee your safety here. Alfred Hamilton has far too many eyes in this city, now. Eyes I did not uncover until recent months. If he finds anyone to pose a similar risk to British society as the young Lord did, he may well strike,” Holmes said, just now lighting his pipe.

James gave him a sour, unhappy smile. “You are too late. Miranda and I have already been asked to leave the country. Tonight.” I now noticed the travel bag that Miranda had brought with her and dropped to the floor in her efforts to restrain James. “But we are not going to the continent. We do not need your  _ protection _ . Your protection is what got us here, is what took Thomas away from—” Something finally seemed to break within him as he looked at Holmes again. “I  _ loved  _ him,” James breathed out, ragged and raw. His voice in that small, simple, honest statement made shivers rise up my spine. “I loved him and he loved me. And he was going to change— He was going to improve us, deliver us into something better. I understand wanting to stop his political plan on the Earl’s behest. I understand that. I could forgive that. But I could not, will not forgive you exposing us to him.”

Holmes inhaled a large puff of smoke from his pipe. His eyes were hooded, heavy with the weight of James’ words.

“I do not dare ask you—either of you—for forgiveness. I am not deserving of such a thing, and may well reject it if it were offered. All I ask, now, is that you remain safe from the evil claws of Alfred Hamilton for as long as possible. I wish I could do the same.”

At Holmes’ words, James stood from his seat and closed in on him, towering over him with his face shrouded in darkness. I immediately tensed, ready to protect Holmes against violence if I needed to, however as much as James’ tense jaw was working ferociously, his hands remained at his side. 

“Then know this. I will not forgive you. Not now. Not in a month. Not in a year. However, Thomas— Thomas has always been the better man, out of the two of us.” His teeth flashed in— not exactly a smile but a feral, sharp expression that breathed fear into me. “Miranda. Could you please tell Mr. Holmes what you told me?”

Miranda breathed in noisily. “Before he was taken. Thomas’ last words, he— he asked that James and I take care of each other, that we keep each other safe, but— but then as these  _ brutish  _ men were dragging him away, as he was bleeding from the wound in his head where they had hit him, he turned around and he said one thing. One last thing.” She fixed her eyes on Holmes as well. “He said,  _ tell Sherlock Holmes I forgive him _ .” 

My mouth fell open from the sheer gravity of it. I looked, again, at Holmes to perceive what emotion lay in his features. All I found there was a deep, acute, sorrow. 

“I am sorry, James,” was all he spoke.

James gave a curt nod and cast one last look at me, the look in his eyes just as tinged with ice as it had been when he looked at Holmes. Something had died deep inside him; something that had kept him moving was now lost forever. I recognised that empty look, that cold stare—it had stared at me in the mirror every day for the years I thought Holmes dead. I knew that, for James, the world had lost its colour, possibly forever. 

Before I could say anything at all—though whether that was to be words of comfort or words of sympathy, I did not know— he turned on his heel and walked out of the parlour, as if he could no longer stand to be in the same room as us. Miranda rose too, her gaze softer yet just as grief-laden.

“We should— we need to—” She fetched her bag and went to follow him. Before leaving, however, she seemed to remember something and she approached me, surprising me by taking my hand and pressing something into it. “This is for— you will know who it is for. Tell her that it is a promise. Tell her—” Miranda’s lip wobbled. “Just. Tell her.” I opened my palm to see the ring that had so recently adorned her little finger now resting there. The ring that was the exact same one as that of my Mary. 

With one last look at us, Lady Miranda Hamilton walked out of our parlour, huddled into her shawl. All we heard was the familiar clang of the door to 221 Baker Street as it closed behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that, this marks the end of act one of Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace! starting tomorrow, we will be posting 14 intermission chapters over the next 14 days (one chapter a day! exciting!). after that, we will be posting act two! i hope you're enjoying this fic, and please leave comments if so!


	11. THE TIMES, 15 JUNE 1895: Heir to Earl of Ashbourne charged at with infamous conduct at Old Bailey: full and special report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the start of our two week long intermission! the intermission is entirely epistolary in nature, and i hope you all enjoy it!

Yesterday, Thomas Edward Henry Hamilton, heir to Lord Alfred Hamilton, Fourth Earl of Ashbourne, described as a gentleman, of 26, Palace Street, St. James’s, was charged on a warrant before Sir Charles Bridge, at Old Bailey, with inciting other persons to commit crime, with committing offences against decency, and with offences under the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 (Clause 11).

The case was heard in the upper court, which was so crowded that ushers had to take chairs to accommodate the comers. It follows mere weeks after the widely publicised trial of Oscar Fingal O’Flaharty Wills Wilde who has been charged with similar crimes. (READ ALL ABOUT THE WILDE TRIAL THAT SHOOK THE COUNTRY ON PAGE FIFTEEN)

The court was filled with men only, with the exception of one lady, dressed in black, who was shown in from the prisoners’ entrance and given a seat immediately behind the prisoner dock. 

Sir Charles Bridge, serving as judge in this trial, took his seat and almost immediately

THOMAS HAMILTON ENTERED THE DOCK

He did not look around or seem to worry and fidget but instead kept his eyes firmly fixed on Sir Bridge. After a whispered enquiry from the constable standing by him, Hamilton sat down in the dock and remained alert, not seeming to take any ease in the proceedings. When asked how he would like to plead, he answered clearly: Not guilty. His defence levelled an accusation of libel and an attempt at erosion of good character. 

Mr. Jeremy Harris, serving as counsel for the prosecution, explained the charges at present to be dealt with were those of acts of indecency over a number of years at a number of locations. Several witnesses familiar with Thomas Hamilton were called to testify. One of them was a Mr. Angus Perry, who stood firmly on the side of the accused. 

Mr. Harris: Were you twenty years of age at the time? — Yes, sir.   
And yourself and Hamilton were in the Oxford cricket team together? — Yes, sir.   
Were you and Hamilton ever alone on occasions? — We were alone on many occasions as friends tend to be.    
Did Hamilton ever behave in a way you would deem inappropriate? — We were schoolboys. Many of us behaved in inappropriate ways. You would need to be more specific than this. All I can tell you of Thomas Hamilton was that he delighted in his study of classics and politics, liked good wine and was a damn good batsman. 

Several other witnesses testified in this nature. It clearly frustrated Mr. Harris that none were willing to answer his questions with clarity, nor seemed willing to confirm the charges against the accused. Lord Thomas Hamilton and his defence did not say a word, nor did they pose any questions to the witnesses.

These events took a rather surprising turn when the fourth—and final—witness from Mr. Harris was called for his testimony, a dignified gentleman, whom we shall call Mr. A. Upon seeing Mr. A. approach the stand and swear his oath,

THOMAS HAMILTON STOOD UP FROM HIS SEAT AT THE DOCK AND ADDRESSED THE JUDGE DIRECTLY.

We print Mr. Hamilton’s shocking statement below in full with an apology for the language that may upset some readers:

Hamilton: I would like to hereby change my pledge, your Honour. I am guilty. I am guilty of all the crimes you have indicted me for, and more. I am guilty as sin. I fuck men. I get fucked by men. I have been fucking men for years, and I have thoroughly, completely enjoyed every second of it. If that makes me a criminal and a monster to you, your Honour, or to you, dear father [ _ ed. Lord Ashbourne was sat in the court in clear view of the prisoner _ ], so be it. I refuse to apologise for it and I refuse to bow under your shame. Please record this as my complete and full statement to this court.

Considerable turmoil overtook the courtroom as the audience began to verbally condemn Hamilton’s statement. After a few calls for order, the trial was swiftly concluded. Sir Bridge then announced that Hamilton would serve the full sentence under the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 of two years of hard labour for his crimes. It has not been specified which establishment the sentence will be exacted in. The woman seated behind the dock cried in her handkerchief. She seemed to be the only one with regret for the wretch. 

A telegram received after the trial informs The Times that Hamilton’s wife, a Lady Miranda, has fled the country with another man. All titles, wealth and claims to land have been stripped of Thomas Hamilton, as well as of his wife or any of his heirs. An art gallery that had previously named one of its wings after Hamilton following a considerable donation has issued a statement that they will be conducting a consultation on renaming shortly. 


	12. Mrs. M. Barlow, Savannah, Georgia to Dr. and Mrs. John Watson, Oxford Street, London, 21 July 1895

Dearest John and Mary

I apologise for the brevity of this letter, however there are many errands that I need to busy myself with as James and I settle in our new home in Savannah. I felt obliged, however, to let you both know that we have arrived safely and are both in good health.

You will note that this letter has been sent out under a different name than the one you knew me under. James has insisted that we do this for our safety. He is concerned that our enemies, that Thomas’ enemies, will have followed our steps from England and will seek to do us harm even here.

The house is bare, but it is all we need at present. James has found himself work as a fisherman. I do not see him much. He spends his nights away from home, chased by demons I cannot quite understand. I worry for him.

I will be writing letters to both James’ superiors at the Admiralty and the Earl of Ashbourne to plead for Thomas’ release. It will most likely be in vain, as mine and James’ names now hold very little weight in British society, however I owe it to us all to try. I will keep you abreast of any developments.

With deepest regards

Miranda


	13. Dr. Michael Stamford, Pilgrim Park Surgery, Reading to Dr. John H. Watson, Kensington Road Surgery, London, 9 September 1895

Dear Watson

I hope this letter finds you well. I know it has been a while since we have been in touch—my relocation to Reading has significantly hampered my attempts at socialisation in London! 

I am contacting you for a rather peculiar case that I am hoping you can shed some light on. I apologise if any of the events in the following letter are distressing in their nature.

This past week I have been asked to attend to a patient at Reading Gaol. I was advised to be extremely cautious in this matter, for the patient was severely mentally unwell and a danger to himself and others. 

As disconcerted as I was by this, I was unable to ignore my Hippocratic Oath and therefore I attended the Gaol surgery to inspect the ailments of one Mr. Hamilton. The gentleman in question seemed severely underfed and underslept, which I was informed was due to his recovery from a recent bout of dysentery. I have suspicions as to the truthfulness of this statement as I have known guards at Reading Gaol to refuse food to troublesome inmates. I was asked to examine a head wound of minor severity and that had caused no concussion—a wound that Mr. Hamilton had, reportedly, inflicted upon himself. 

As I reached to begin the examination of the wound, Mr. Hamilton caught me by the wrist with a force greater than I would have assumed from his weak constitution. We were alone in the room—I had insisted so, for I had respect for the wretch’s privacy—which only increased my anxiety, as I was certain he was seeking to hurt me. However, when my eyes met Hamilton’s, he did not look to me to be a man of an unsound mind. Quite the contrary, Watson, to me he seemed to be a fellow very much with his wits about him. 

“You are Dr. Stamford,” he said to me. “You are a friend of Dr. Watson’s from London, yes?”

At first I was surprised at this assessment but his next statement served to clarify it for me:

“I have read of you in Dr. Watson’s stories. You introduced him to Sherlock Holmes.”

And then, my friend, I knew that the gentleman’s mind was quite sharp enough—if he could remember his reading, then there was no way that his mental disposition was anything but sound. I confirmed his suspicions and then Hamilton said the following, which I will attempt to present to you as truthfully as I can:

“We do not have much time. Please, could you relay to Doctor Watson the following: in my offices in Whitehall, if these have not yet been cleared, there is a locked drawer in the desk. The key is taped on the flyleaf of the copy of _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_. In the drawer are several extremely sensitive documents and letters, with the names and addresses of several dozen men. Doctor Watson should retrieve these letters and, if he finds it appropriate, share them with his colleague. They would only be safe in his hands.”

I do not know what to make of this odd request, old friend, yet I had not the heart to refuse it to the poor sod, what in his state and all. I hope it is of some use to you and Holmes. Do write to me if there is any help you need or if you feel you can provide me with some clarification—which, of course, you do not need to feel obliged to give. 

Until we meet again, I remain your good friend,

M. Stamford


	14. The Office of Lord Alfred Hamilton, 4th Earl of Ashbourne, Haddon Hall, Ashbourne to Dr. John H. Watson, Oxford Street, London, 13 October 1895

Dear Dr. John H. Watson

Your request to visit a certain prisoner at Reading Gaol has been forwarded by the institution’s superintendent to Lord Ashbourne directly. The Earl would like to express his thanks at your concern for his family member’s health. 

Due to the sensitive, personal nature of the matter with which the prisoner is concerned, I regret to inform you that your visitation request has been denied. I have also been asked to reassure you that any issues involving the health of inmates in Reading Gaol will be dealt with by a capable local physician. 

The Earl would also kindly request that you do not make the same request in the future.

I apologise for any disappointment this letter may bring.

With good regards, &c &c

Mr Kieran Willoughby

Secretary to Lord Alfred Hamilton, 4th Earl of Ashbourne


	15. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221 Baker Street, London to Lord Alfred Hamilton, 4th Earl of Ashbourne, Haddon Hall, Ashbourne, 11 November 1895 [RETURNED TO SENDER]

Most honourable Lord Ashbourne,

Whilst I am aware that any correspondence from my address may be unwelcome to you, I felt it pertinent that an attempt be made all the same. I write this to you not as a former colleague, nor as a political lobbyist. These words come exclusively from a citizen of England, and of London. As a witness to the trial of Lord Thomas Hamilton, as well as the previous trial of a similar nature against Oscar Wilde, I can say with utmost certainty that your son’s maximum sentence was not in proportion to the crimes committed. 

Wilde’s criminal offences, as well as his testimony within the courtroom, were undeniably more damning than those of Thomas Hamilton, and therefore an equal sentence is unjust in its nature. I will not attempt, at this moment, to argue for your son’s innocence, as his testimony under court oath cannot be refuted. To state he is worthy of level punishment to that of someone as boisterous as Wilde is unjust. 

The documents enclosed, holding transcripts of the court proceedings, as well as the written text of the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 may enlighten the truth of this statement. I felt it reasonable to address this correspondence to you with the hope that you will find compassion in your heart and facilitate a release of your son under the condition of bail. I am prepared to take on the cost of any such bail if it is so negotiated. Please contact me if you need any further details.

I hope this correspondence finds you in good health.

Yours in good faith

Mr. Sherlock Holmes


	16. J to T. H., Reading Gaol, undated

T. H. —

I do not know if this letter will reach you. I do not know if you are allowed the kindness of letters in the place that they have chained you. I dread to think of you in chains; you were never meant to know them, you were never meant to carry their bruises on your fair skin, you were never meant to see such cruelty and hatred. 

M and I are free and living comfortably. I cannot tell you where for fear that this letter will be intercepted. But we are alive and we are counting down the days until we can see you and hold you in our arms again. 

I go out to sea often and I stare at it, unseeing. The sea is the colour of your eyes and when the breeze catches on my hair, I imagine it is your caress, the way you used to comb it again and again. I have cut it short but as soon as you are back, I will grow it out again for I know how much you love it. Or, should your preferences have changed in our time apart, I will shave it. There is nothing that I would not do for your happiness, Thomas. 

Dr. W. sent us the article about your trial. It pains me greatly that you felt that you had to throw yourself upon the sword in this way. I do not know why you felt you needed to do it—who was the man whose face scared you so? Why did you not let him testify? They had nothing against you, Thomas, not a thing. Why did you do it? I love you, yet I do not understand you.

Please, Thomas, bear this. Bear it for us both. I will grow flowers in our garden and I will braid them in Miranda’s hair and we will be thinking of you. And, once this is all over and I have you in my arms again, I will never lose sight of you again.

Yours, forever

J


	17. THE DAILY TELEGRAPH, 17 APRIL 1892: High Society Blackmail SCANDAL Reaches Verdict in Magistrate Court — Peer of the Realm UNDER ARREST! (Annotated by Sherlock Holmes — 28 January 1896)

Yesterday morning, the jury of the recent trial Perry v. Henderson **[Viscount Wilfred Henderson, former colleague of TH?]** reached a verdict of GUILTY toward the defense. Among those on the stand in support of the prosecution, was none other than Lord Thomas Hamilton, heir to the Fourth Earl of Ashbourne. 

The courtroom gallery buzzed with life as the final witnesses took the stand, especially after the strong accusations the defense made toward the prosecution just one day prior. There were no women present **[Perry unmarried.]**. Honourable Judge Reynolds presiding.

While Perry’s prosecution of robbery and libel was a strong one, Viscount Henderson’s counsel appeared invested in proving his innocence. Named accusations included that of sodomy and gross indecency in violation of the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 **[Same accusations against TH]** , and that such acts could be corroborated by witnesses provided that day. 

Recently involved in various political ventures in his Whitehall office, Hamilton provided testimony and evidence to deny Viscount Henderson’s claims of indecency against Perry. This included written correspondence between them, from no less than six months prior, in which it was clear that Perry was a man of high regard in the community. Given Lord Hamilton’s position of honour within the offices of Whitehall, as well as the concrete evidence provided at the witness stand, it seemed that any further questioning was unnecessary. **[Search for evidence in files.]**

LORD HAMILTON TAKES THE STAND

Reynolds: In your business with Mr. Perry, has he indicated any fraying moral behaviour?

Hamilton: Angus Perry is a man of high morals, and is greatly revered by well respected men, including myself. In all my interactions with him, I have seen nothing but a kind and admirable figure. **[Why defend Perry? Former lover? Perry mentioned in Hamilton files?]**

Reynolds: Would you have any reason to suspect Viscount Henderson—a known colleague of yourself and your father—to spread such harmful falsehoods about Mr. Perry?

Hamilton: I know little of Viscount Henderson’s personal behaviour, your Honour, but I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that spreading falsehoods of the private lives of honest men is not a new practice among members of the House of Lords. **[Either Perry is a former lover, or TH wished to indict Viscount. Perhaps both?]**

A GASP COMES OVER THE GALLERY

Despite the scandalous nature of the young Lord’s words, Judge Reynolds appeared to trust Hamilton’s testimony—as did the jury. After two hours deliberation, the commonwealth jurors reached the conclusion that Viscount Wilfred Henderson was GUILTY of robbery and libel against Mr. Angus Perry.

His sentencing will be decided upon by Judge Reynolds this morning, at nine o’clock in Magistrate’s Court. 

**Upon further research: Viscount Henderson was sentenced with six months hard labour, with a decreased sentence due to it being a first offence (as well as due to his social status, undoubtedly). Henderson had rather close connections in the House of Lords, and appeared to be a friend of the Hamilton family. If** ~~**Thomas**~~ **Lord Hamilton wished to bring harm upon Henderson for some other purpose, it is unclear.**

**The relationship between Lord Hamilton and Angus Perry remains unclear. The files retrieved from Lord Hamilton’s Whitehall offices hold several letters of correspondence between the two men, innocent in nature, yet revealing that Mr. Perry was aware that this accusation could be levelled against him and he saw fit to seek advice from Lord Hamilton.**

**After looking into other cases of a similar nature between 1890 and 1894, it appears that Lord Hamilton appeared on the witness stand no less than nine times in defense of men with claims of gross indecency or sodomy against them. It did not appear to be relevant whether or not he knew these men, or if they were of common or aristocratic birth.**

**Many of these cases involved robbery or libel charges, only for defense to claim a justified response toward the prosecution’s indecencies.**

**Final conclusion: Lord Hamilton had attempted, various times, to defend the honour of men like him, often succeeding, though failing on occasion. Given his large social circle, often stretching outside his parliamentary connections at Whitehall, it seems as though it was quite easy for him to provide a trustworthy testimony before a judge.**

**Many questions remain: If he was so aware of the consequences tied to the charges he later faced, why did he implicate himself this way? His success rate in the past could not lie, and yet he announced his crimes in so brash a manner, with no regard for his safety and well-being. Who is Mr. A. and why did his presence at the witness stand push Lord Hamilton to this desperate act?**

**More research required.**


	18. Mr. Mycroft Holmes, 66 Park Street, London to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221 Baker Street, London, 22 July 1896

Sherlock 

I hope this letter finds you well. I would have sent you a wire to meet, however this last week has proven rather busy, and my word could not wait. Whilst I am certain of your awareness as to the nature of this letter, I felt I should confirm all the same. I am aware of your recent efforts since the indictment of one Thomas Hamilton that you have begun to employ a more unsavoury clientele within your rooms at Baker Street, in a futile effort to continue the work of a convicted man. I have been reliably informed that a man matching Doctor Watson’s description recently attended Hamilton’s Whitehall offices and retrieved papers of unknown origins; additionally, I am aware that these papers were subsequently delivered to yourself. I know well that many of your efforts in the work of detection come from your profound sense of personal justice, and I have allowed such emotional ventures from you in the past. In this case, however, I cannot permit it. 

I ask you, dear brother, that you cease your work in foolish blackmailing cases henceforth. If you elect to ignore my request, I cannot offer the protections I have so often granted to you in the past. Whilst I do not wish for such definitive boundaries set between us, my reputation, and the reputation of our name within this city, hangs in the balance of your own decisions. 

In hope that you will make the correct choice

Mycroft


	19. Mrs. Mary Watson, Savannah, Georgia to Dr. John Watson, Oxford Street, London, 2 February 1897

My dearest John— 

I write to you from James and Miranda’s humble home in Savannah, where I have arrived safely. I am so loathe to be the bearer of grim news, my love, however I do feel that you and Holmes must be kept abreast of the situation as it develops.

I am enclosing in this envelope a letter from a Lord Peter Ashe, who you may remember as a close friend of the Hamiltons in London. This was sent directly to Miranda and James here, as I understand one of Lord Ashe’s good friends acts as their landlord in absentia. I must now ask you to read Lord Ashe’s news and relay them to Holmes with the utmost haste. 

Even writing these lines brings tears to my eyes, John, at the injustice and horror of it all. It is unthinkable to even imagine kind, lovely Thomas in that dreadful place, all on his own, subject to torture beyond comprehension. I find myself feeling an infinitesimal shred of relief that he is no longer in pain, that he has perhaps found peace in this final act of rebellion against his father’s wishes. However, I dare not voice these thoughts, for I am fully engaged with caring for James and Miranda in the aftermath of receiving these dreadful news. 

John, I cannot begin to describe to you James’ reaction upon reading Lord Ashe’s letter. Never in my life have I seen a man in such distress - he howled much like a wounded animal and the look in his eyes made me believe he was ready to burn the whole world down, lest it have a chance of bringing Thomas back. He raged and growled and broke things, however he did not weep, and he is yet to do so. Miranda is beside herself with worry for him as he has left the house two days ago and is yet to return. His grief so reminds me of yours after you lost Holmes, John - it is the same gaping void that you carried within you that has now cracked James’ breast wide open.

For my part, I offer what comfort I can to Miranda, and I am glad that she has me to hold on to, for James is too overwhelmed with the demons in his mind. I worry about what he will do, John, and that he may put his own life in danger. He has taken up acquaintance with crowds of all kinds here, and while I understand this to be necessary for their survival, I cannot help but wonder whether he is planning something beyond our comprehension. 

I believe this is not what Thomas would have wanted for him - we, as his friends, need to do something before he too is lost to us forever.

I eagerly await your reply and I hope that you and Holmes would have some advice to impart on me and Miranda.

Until then, I remain, faithfully yours,

Mary


	20. W to H, undated

H —

In the wake of everything, I find myself unable to articulate anything at all, save words to you. How absurd, my mind insists upon being, regardless of my pleas for it to be otherwise. 

You reject my efforts in closeness, or whatever intimacy you so often referred to us holding in the years before you left. I wish, often, to return to those years. The years before marriage, age, and scandal of the most dangerous sort. Do you wish the same? Do you wish for anything, save the next case in your records, the next client at your step? That is a foolish question, is it not? I know the answer, or at least I used to. I used to think I understood the complexity of your mind, and your emotions, beyond that of the aloof detective in my serials. Now, as I count the months since last we spoke as I read your name within the Times, I wonder if any of those past observations were true.

You always used to say that I romanticised ~~our~~ your cases in an offensive, inaccurate manner. That I was committing an indecency to your work by my attachment to narrative over reality. Perhaps, you were right. Perhaps, I was lining my tales with fanciful niceties that were unnecessary, and to include them was to do a disservice to the art of detection itself. When examining the nature of my heart at the time, I cannot claim this was an impossibility.

Oh, if only you knew the purpose for my need for romance when writing of you, Holmes. If you knew of my reasons, it may be possible that you would have said nothing of it. Moreover, you may have taken the liberty of shunning me from your work and home much earlier than now. How grateful I am that such things did not happen then. The decade of happy, innocent work together will live eternally in my memory, with no mention of the E. of A. or the horrific fate of T. H. 

I do not miss you in the same way I did when I thought you dead. Now, rather, I think of all the glorious adventures you continue on with in my absence. I think of the rare moments when you have invited me along, and how they are a mere blip into the scope of your fantastical life. To be privy to any of it is a gift, but it does allow my daydreams to run wild with possibility. Do you enjoy your time away from me? Are you thankful to not have the limping, curious presence of a burdened man at your feet? 

I still miss the sound of your violin, late into the night. How you would stand beside my bedroom door, all those years ago, and serenade me with soothing melodies until dreams overtook me. Did you know how often you visited my dreams? You must have, eventually, as you stopped playing as time went on. I cannot name the last time you picked up the Stradivarius in my presence. I yearn for that almost as much as I yearn for you.

The words upon this page, much like the rest of my life as of late, serve as nothing but a reminder of your absence. To say they provide me any form of solace would be a falsehood I cannot pretend to believe any longer. These words are nothing now, but the grief fueled musings of a lonely man, destined to remain as such until death takes me in my old age. Perhaps the cold hand of shame will take me earlier than that. I feel its grip strengthen every day.

W


	21. Mr. Flint, Savannah, Georgia to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street, London; 10 March 1898

Mr. Holmes—

It has been brought to my attention via my contacts in London that you have endeavoured to continue the work started by the late Lord Thomas Hamilton in the year 1894. I must strongly advise you against this course of action. 

This political maneuver has always been fraught with dangers. As someone with an awareness of Lord Hamilton’s campaign, I can assure you that it was flawed from its very beginning and that the dangers were not calculated properly. It led to grave losses for all involved, as I am sure you have heard. 

Even so; should you choose to ignore this warning and continue with your efforts, allow me to impart a piece of advice for you. There is a man living in London, who worked with Lord Hamilton, and who still yields considerable power in the House of Lords. I cannot tell you where it is that he resides, for I have lost track of his movements many years ago. But if you are looking for strong political allies, who would be looking to aid you in your efforts, then you must seek out  _ Lord Peter Ashe.  _ I would not be able to promise that Lord Ashe will be amenable to your concerns or willing to help, however I feel that, in the situation that you have landed yourself in, any hope is better than no hope at all. 

I sincerely hope you will take me at my word and avoid any further involvement in this matter. 

With concern,

Mr. Flint, a well-wisher


	22. Anonymous, delivered to Dr. John Watson, Oxford Street, London; undated

_ I humbly request that the following letter be placed upon the final resting place of Thomas Edward Henry Hamilton, most likely located near the premises of Reading Gaol. _

I do not know how to go on without you.

I do go on because I know that is what you would want of me. I get up, I put my clothes on, I leave the house. My legs move on their own volition. I am a shell, and I am filled with nothing but grief and fury. 

I have shaved my head; it is tradition. It is what sailors do when in mourning. You would hate it. You would probably say my ears are too small, or that the shape of my head is too unseemly. 

No. You would never say these things. I know you would not. Yet I am starting to pretend you would say things that would never leave your mouth, only because I am scared of forgetting the sound of your voice.

How am I meant to go on without you?

I have met a woman here. A revolutionary. I have been helping her sabotage cotton deliveries to your father’s factories from the Southern States. I have been writing anonymous petitions for her, and vandalising racially segregated establishments that have now been a fixture here due to the local barbaric laws. You would like her; she so reminds me of you. She is bright and kind and fierce and refuses to back down at the face of injustice. She would have a thing or two to tell you about prejudice. I have learned so much from her. 

I try to be there for M. But we cannot bear to look at each other because all we can see is the void where you used to be. I see it when I look in the mirror; it is a big, gaping, toothed thing inside of me. It makes me want to howl. 

Thomas, I am filled with rage for what was done to you. I am ready to find every single man who dared to lay a hand on you and make them suffer, I am ready to lay waste to the entire British empire, to Queen Victoria and to God Himself if it would bring you back into my arms. I know it will not, yet the monster in my belly wishes me to do it all the same.

I imagine the most beautiful flowers grow on your grave, for you have always inspired all living things to do better in your presence. I cannot be better, not without you. I am now entirely someone else, and all the love I have for you has to be buried deep within, for the darkness that sprawls inside my rib cage would destroy it otherwise, as it has destroyed other good, beautiful things. 

Farewell, my dearest Thomas. You are, and always will be, the love of my life. Until we meet again.


	23. Mr. Rodney J. Fillingsworth, Superintendent, Reading Gaol, Reading to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221 Baker Street, London, 1 May  1899

Mr. Holmes

I write in reference to your curious correspondence sent some months ago, as to the internment of the remains of one prior inmate, a T. Hamilton. Upon reading your request, I must admit the initial confusion sourced from it. However, further research appeared to reveal the source of my confusion, and I do hope the following lines will shed some light onto the matter. 

While many details about the circumstances surrounding T. Hamilton’s case are not to be shared with the public, I can state to you with firm certainty that there is no grave on or near the premises of Reading Gaol within which the body of T. Hamilton lay. I can confirm that he has not been an inmate under my jurisdiction at the Gaol as of 10 June 1897. 

Regards

R. J. Fillingsworth


	24. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221 Baker Street, London to Mr. J. Flint and Mrs. M. Barlow, Savannah, Georgia, 17 November 1899 [SEALED COPY OF ORIGINAL]

Dear Mr. Flint and Mrs. Barlow

It is with my utmost hope that this letter finds you well. The contents of this message are sensitive in nature, and I request that the both of you elect to read it in privacy, if possible, and destroy it afterwards. 

In the years since the indictment of Thomas Hamilton, I have spent much of my professional capacities as a detective in London attempting to continue his work toward pardoning those under scrutiny from Clause 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885. Additionally, I have provided aid to affected communities of blackmail victims under threat from the very same Clause, most of whom are tied to molly houses around London. My efforts, though insignificant in the grander scheme, did allow me to gain informants within areas of London’s underbelly that I did not hold before making his acquaintance. Through these informants, I have been allowed access to certain pieces of knowledge within Britain high society that even my brother could not provide. 

I have received word in recent months, both by way of said informants, as well as through more traditional channels, that the information we received in winter of 1897 regarding Thomas Hamilton’s life may not have been accurate. Whilst I cannot divulge every detail to you in this letter that I may wish to, I assure you that I would not be telling you this if I did not believe the reports to hold significant validity. 

There are pieces of information that I am still lacking as I write this to you, but I felt that it may be appropriate to offer my invitation to you in an effort to gain said knowledge. This is of such a sensitive and personal nature, I viewed it little but fair to the two of you to allow you to do what you choose with what I am about to relay to you.

It appears that, according to the evidence I have collected, Lord Alfred Hamilton has relocated himself away from London in his retirement. If my reports prove correct—which you can examine yourself with the copies I have provided within—it appears he has secluded himself in lodgings in Glasgow, before making a more permanent home in the Scottish Highlands. If any man on this earth knows what has become of Thomas Hamilton, it is undoubtedly him. 

Do what you wish with the knowledge I have bestowed in this letter, and do not feel inclined to inform me of any decisions you make as a result unless it is your wish to do so. 

With the highest of regard, 

Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, this marks the end of our intermission! Starting Thursday, we will be posting with our regular schedule and sharing Act Two of the fic. I hope you enjoy!


	25. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the beginning of act two! There are just ten chapters left now, and I hope you all enjoy.

_ Excerpt from the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson, February of 1903 _

It has taken me three years to force myself to write the pages that follow. Recounting the first part of the events involving Thomas Hamilton, Miranda Hamilton and James McGraw took considerable strength, for I was pushed into remembering the darkest moments of my association and companionship with Sherlock Holmes. Now, somewhat recovered from this horrible experience, I have decided to finish the tale. I am well aware that this will perhaps not ever be read, that it will rot away in this deposit box. Even if so, I feel the need to excise what darkness remains within me and so that I can peacefully live in the light I so mercifully discovered at the end of the Hamilton affair. I need this story—our story—to be told in full, truthfully and with no shame. If no one else, then at least these pages will know who the true villains in our world are. 

Beginning of winter of the year of our Lord 1900 found myself and Mary on a loud, rattling train en route to Edinburgh. From then on, we were to go on a connecting train to Glasgow, the industrial powerhouse of Scotland. We had been summoned there by our dear old friends, who had sent us a letter that my wife was now smoothing over in her hands nervously:

_ Dearest Mary and John _ —

_ After several needed stopovers, we have now safely arrived in Glasgow as of yesterday and are recovering from the long journey. We apologise that we have not met you anywhere closer to London, however it would not be safe for us to be in any way close to the capital. If it pleases you, we would like you to meet us at Glasgow train station in four days time at 3 p.m. We will then inform you of our plans for the days to follow.  _

_ With eagerness _

_ M. B. and J. F.  _

My wife continued to worry her hands about the piece of paper as I placed a concerned palm on her shoulder. So early on in what felt like the very start of an incredibly dangerous endeavour, temporary comfort was all I could provide to her. The wary agony within her features had done little but increase in the years since the Hamiltons’ departure from our lives, since that fateful day when we had seen Miranda and James embark on the ship to America in haste. Mary had had a chance to embark on a single visit to Georgia in the last half decade; this had been forever marred by the horrifying news it had brought with it, news that had changed us all forever. Since her return, little seemed to soothe her, and no similar friendly company filled her time in the interim. Her constitution suffered greatly with worry for Miranda after she had seen, firsthand, how difficult and punishing her and James’ lives in Georgia were. Mary told me little of it at the time, for we both felt that we would drown in the vast sea of grief that a single letter had thrown us into, but she did not need to. I knew her well enough and I knew that she had left her heart in Miranda’s hands, I knew that her thoughts were fixed on nothing else. Her thumb absentmindedly stroked Miranda’s initials over and over again. 

In spite of her anxiety, she offered me comfort as well, for no grief could destroy the kindness in her heart. A gentle lean upon my shoulder to assure me of her ever-present care for my well being was felt, and I knew she understood the weight of my own trepidation along with her own. What this trek to Scotland signified was not lost on either one of us. 

Sherlock Holmes had elected to stay in London during this leg of the journey, by way of securing our safety in later steps of what we hoped would become a rescue mission. 

_ “Should my predictions prove correct, Watson, it is of utmost importance that we are prepared for what your friends may wish to do next. If a plan and resources is the best help I can offer, I intend to provide both these things in their entirety.” _

His voice, as it so often did, echoed in my thoughts as the Northern countryside flew past our window. Our relationship had warmed, somewhat, after my dizzying relief at his admittance that he had not intentionally worked with Thomas’ father to betray him and lead him to death. Even so, a chasm had still opened between us, as if he now stood a distance that I did not know how to encompass. Due to his efforts in recent years, of which I knew few details of, our work had drifted apart. Though I attempted to request an observing eye into his work, it was often rejected with a justification of  _ too dangerous,  _ or  _ nothing new.  _ So, in the many years that had passed since Thomas Hamilton’s damnation, I was left to work in my Kensington practise, secluded from the life with Holmes I so desperately wished to return to. 

And then, all of a sudden, we had hope again—hope that Holmes had managed to salvage from secret correspondence, from reconnaissance in the dark, from dealings beyond my understanding. The news that Thomas may still be alive, may be in desperate need of our help, had brought life back in all our lungs, for indeed I felt almost as if I could hear the long pained exhale of our exiled friends all the way from Savannah. From the little contact I had had with James and Miranda, I knew that they had dropped everything at a moment’s notice to travel back—a prospect that terrified me, because I did not know how they would handle the fallout in case Holmes’ information proved incorrect. 

Holmes, on his part, was tight-lipped—sometimes to the point of my annoyance—about the situation. I saw this as the much needed opportunity to explore the gap between us, to bring us closer in the way that I desperately needed to be close to him again. Yet, he insisted that his work was too fraught with danger for me to involve myself in, he denied me any opportunity to help him in what I now knew was the continuation of Thomas’ dream. When the time came, once Miranda informed us of Holmes’ findings, I was firm in my resolve that I was not to be isolated from this affair any longer. My need for reconciliation aside, Thomas was my friend, and I owed it to him to try to save his life. I owed it to the men I had at times glimpsed leaving Holmes’ parlour over these last years, whose haunted eyes chased me in my nightmares. I owed it to James, who, judging by the frenetic, terrified tone of Miranda’s letters, was set upon a dangerous, self-destructive path, fuelled by his own misery. I owed it to myself, in a way. 

I shook my head out of these thoughts and checked, needlessly, the time for our connecting train to Glasgow. 

“Shall we go to the dining car for an early lunch, John?” Mary’s voice interrupted my rumination. 

“Yes, I think that may be wise.”

* * *

As we finally disembarked at the train station in Glasgow, the heady, heavy smell of the city hit my nose immediately—coal, wet moss and fried meat. With Mary holding on to my elbow, we made our way through the crowds of people, anxiously scanning for the familiar faces we had not seen for half a decade. For a second, I worried that we would not be able to see them or, in fact, that we had been fooled into a trap of some sort. I did not doubt James and Miranda’s honesty—I knew for a fact that Miranda would not intentionally seek to do Mary any harm—however the noose around mine and Holmes’ neck that the Hamilton affair had wrung about us seemed to be tightening every day. I worried for our safety in this unknown, sprawling city full of smoke. 

Just as I was about to share my thoughts with Mary, she gripped my arm in a vice-like grip. “John!” she exclaimed.

I followed her pointing finger and saw what it was that had made her react so. Just a few steps away from was was the unmistakable bright, intelligent face of Lady Miranda Hamilton. 

We rushed her way as quickly as we could. Mary let go of me so that she could grasp Miranda’s hand and pull her into a warm, trembling embrace. I looked around nervously—though scenes such as these were common in train stations, the last thing I wanted was for my wife to betray herself in such a public view. 

“Not here,” a low, rasping voice, sounded near us. “Let’s go to the rooms, Miranda. It is not safe here.”

I looked to the source of the voice and gasped as I saw the man there—a man I knew and yet, I felt, a man I knew not at all.

I could have walked past James McGraw in the street with ease and not recognised him with how much he had changed in our years apart. While I would never have described him as a delicate man before, the hardness to his features had now almost steeled itself and seemed ready to maim, to kill. His head was shaved and he did not wear a hat to hide this—suspicious glances were cast at him from passer-byes, and women pulled their children closer at the sight of him. A silver earring shone in his left ear. Unlike Miranda’s, his face was tanned, standing out sharply against mine and Mary’s pale complexions. A crescent-shaped scar marred his left cheek. I noticed his left hand flex in the pocket of his long coat and I knew, without a doubt, that he had a weapon there, whether a gun or a knife I could not tell. 

He looked—for a lack of a better word—like a vagrant, or a pirate. He looked like a man to be feared. He looked like a man who had killed before, and was going to kill again. 

Mary, who was now holding on to Miranda’s arm—scared to let go of her lest she turn into smoke—nodded curtly, and we followed the stern line of James’ back through the gaggle of workers and families that flooded the station. We emerged on a large, busy shopping street, and for a moment I felt my nervousness dissipate. James, however, quickly led us away from it, tugging us into a cobbled side road and kept us going forward. He was looking over his shoulder, his green eyes sharp with concern. This much had not changed. I remembered clearly when Holmes and I had tried to track him down from the Red Lion. If he wished so, James McGraw was a difficult man to catch. 

Several times we made some sharp turns, as James was evidently anxious to evade any possible tracking party. We followed without complaint, though the fast pace did make my old knee injury sting. 

At last, James opened the door to a shabby-looking public house nearby and hastened us inside. He nodded wordlessly to the barkeep—a blonde woman, no more than 25, with discerning, intelligent eyes—and we made our way to the rooms upstairs. James led us into one of them, a simple lodging with a double bed, a washbasin, and a table with two chairs. As soon as the door was closed behind us, he turned around.

“We have arranged for a room for yourselves with the owner, it should—”

However, whatever it was that he was meant to say died in his throat as we both looked up and saw that Miranda and Mary were caught in the most tender, loving of embraces. 

Miranda’s hands were running over Mary’s face, gentle, revering, as if she was reacquainting herself with the feeling of her skin under her fingertips. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other as if they would never look away, lost in the sight and feel of themselves. Then, my wife tenderly leaned in to place a gentle kiss on Miranda’s lips. That seemed to unleash something in her and Miranda held Mary tight and planted quick, desperate kisses against her cheek, her lips, her nose. They did not want to catch a breath that was spent without kissing. 

Part of me ached for them, for the years of separation between them. I had watched, in the last five years, as my wife’s health suffered as she yearned for her love across the Atlantic. It reminded me much of the same longing I knew well. It was remarkable, how these two women so removed from one another’s lives for the better half of a decade could reunite with such seamless ease. I wondered if tenderness like theirs was something I could ever dream to obtain. Or, was it a foolish flight of fancy, to hope that someone of my own miserable state could ever have something so pure in its beauty, let alone with the man I wished to share it with? I shook the thoughts from my mind, forcing myself to focus on the expression of the mysterious, yet familiar man beside me. 

The look on James’ face was something indecipherable, something betraying a deep hurt within him. I recognised the same tumultuous emotion I felt in my own breast. Was he imagining that he would reunite with Thomas in much the same way? Was he hoping for this—a tender embrace, comfort, happiness—if we were successful in our endeavour? Or was he thinking of how, should the information we had been given prove wrong, he would not have a warm body to hold, perhaps not even a gravestone to mourn in the face of? 

With a minute shake of his head, James cleared the fog from his eyes and looked at me. “I suggest you and I take the additional room ourselves, Doctor Watson.” 

I nodded with a deep, weary sigh. I felt stupendously fatigued and anxious of what tomorrow would hold for us all. But, I did not want to mire the joy of Mary and Miranda’s reunion with these thoughts. “Quite so, James. Do lead the way. Perhaps you can fill me in on your life in these past five years.”

With a quiet step, we left the room, though it would not have mattered if we were as loud as horses, for Mary and Miranda only had eyes for each other. Just before we closed the door I saw Mary, her hands trembling with the intensity of her emotions, carefully slip the well-known ring back onto Miranda’s little finger, its rightful and well-deserved place.

* * *

James and I ventured to the other room, and once inside I found a seat beside the window, grateful for the rest for my weary legs. On his part, James elected to remain away from the vantage point, and brought his seat closer to the washbasin in the centre of the room. Even behind closed doors, his caution permeated every move. 

“I would offer you a drink, Doctor Watson, but I am afraid we are of rather humble means until we find our bearings here.”

“Do not worry about it, my friend,” I waved my hand dismissively. “A drink is neither wanted nor needed at the present, for indeed the relief I feel seeing yourself and Miranda after so long beats all the euphoria alcohol could provide!”

A small smile curled James’ mouth, the first I had seen in a long while. “It is good to see you as well; though I so wish I did not have to be on British soil to do so.”

I looked at him, studying the way he held himself, the way that was more reminiscent of the Navy Lieutenant the more I looked. I was infinitely curious as to what his life had been in the years where I had heard scarce a word from him. I knew that James was an industrious man and he would not have stood idle; once again, I felt Holmes’ acute loss by my side. Had my friend been here, he would have perhaps been able to tell much of James’ history just by the stains on his coat and the mud on his shoes.

Instead, another thought left my mouth unexpectedly: “You have changed your name.”

“I have. I go by Flint, now. James Flint.”

“Why Flint?”

James fixed me with his intelligent eyes. “For the purposes of mine and Miranda’s safety in Georgia, the names Hamilton and McGraw were no longer adequate. The Earl of Ashbourne runs many operations in the American South, and I could not guarantee that his agents were not still looking for us to— for the purpose of revenge, I assume.” A muscle jumped in James’ face. “For Miranda it was simple enough to revert to her maiden name, but she outright refused when I suggested to play the role of her husband. She said that she would never be married again, even deceptively so, for it would feel as a betrayal of—” James’ voice faltered and I felt a terrible ache in my chest at the sight of it, for he could not seem to be able to even force the name out of his mouth. He took a deep breath.“Then I remembered an old fairytale that my grandfather had told me as a boy, of a pirate of the past century named Captain Flint. According to the legend, Flint was a man by day and a terrifying beast by night, who killed his enemies with his claws and teeth and made his clothes from their skin. He drank the blood of infants in cups made from their skulls and he controlled the seas with a power granted to him by the devil himself. It is said that the monster pirate could only be saved from his beasthood with his true love’s kiss.” His smile was bitter, unhappy. “Besides, Thomas always said that, with hair like mine, I was born to start fires. It felt right.” He ran his hand over his shorn head, as if still getting used to the feeling of his auburn locks no longer being there. 

When James did say Thomas’ name, it almost hurt me worse than his previous inability to do so. It had once been something he had uttered in deep reverence and with a smiling, faraway look of unadulterated affection on his face. Now, it sounded like debris stuck in his throat; like a distant memory that pained him deep in his soul. Now, all it brought into the deep lines of his face was pain and grief.

“Did he find his true love’s kiss? The pirate named Flint?”

“I do not remember how the fairytale ends.”

Both of us sat in silence for a second, weighed down by darkness we could not quite explain or understand. I could not stand to be in it, so I cleared my throat and directed our conversation somewhere safer.

“So, James, what of tomorrow?” 

James tightened his shoulders. “Tomorrow I will make contact with my connections here in Glasgow to gather more intelligence on Alfred Hamilton’s whereabouts, using the information Holmes has provided us. It should not take long, using our combined efforts.”

“You have connections in Glasgow?” I raised my eyebrow questioningly. “Not something I expected from a man who has lived in America for the last five years.”

“I have been much less removed from the British empire than you might think, Doctor Watson,” James replied with a smile that was all teeth and violence. “I will perhaps tell you the details of it another day. The light is disappearing quickly, and you must be tired from your journey.” 

“And once you find the Earl? What then?”

“Then, I intend to go to him and force him to reveal the truth about what happened in 1897.”

Something cold settled in my stomach at the tone of James’ voice.  _ Force him. _ Of course I had always known that James McGraw was prone to violence; it was in fact one of the first things that I had learned about him. However, with his new face under the name of James Flint, I felt that the violence had taken on a new dimension. It had become something much darker, much more dangerous. It had spread all throughout my friend like a forest fire. 

“Are you going to kill him, James?” I asked, my voice quiet and perturbed. I already knew the answer to the question I posed. 

“Yes.” 

I swallowed and ran a hand through my hair. “Good Lord.”

Although I had not meant it in a disparaging way, James became tense and guarded anyway. “This man destroyed my life and the life of those I hold dear. He branded me a monster. I will avenge this loss, I will make him pay for all he has taken from me, and I will find out the truth. If you are willing to help me, I will accept it; if not, I suggest you do not stand in my way.”

There was no mistaking the threat in his statement, and there was no mistaking of the clench of his left hand, almost curling into a fist. I stared at him, not knowing what to say. Even after all the years of knowing how this otherwise good and honest man jumped to rage within seconds, I was still surprised by the burn of his fury. I remembered Mary’s letter— _ it is the same gaping void that you carried within you that has now cracked James’ breast wide open _ —she had said and now that I was face to face with James, I could see that clearly, a vast emptiness howling within him. 

James scowled at my continued silence and rose from his seat. He reached for his coat that he shrugged back on his shoulders. “Feel free to take the bed. I shan’t be sleeping here tonight. Bolt the door when I leave. I will find you in the morning at breakfast.”

I did not get a chance to ask where he would be sleeping, or whether he would be sleeping at all, for he was gone before I could blink. Following his advice, I made sure to lock the door after him. 


	26. XII

I awoke the following morning at the sound of the eight o’clock bell from a nearby clock tower. James was still nowhere to be seen and he had not spent the night in the room. After dressing and washing, I ventured down to the tavern below in search of breakfast. No familiar faces were present at the tables or bar stools yet, so I located a booth suited for four, and ordered myself an Earl Grey in the interim. The early morning patrons of The Hangman’s Rest were scattered and few in number at this time of morning, presumably a majority of whom were guests at the Inn or locals who lived nearby and were desperate for company. There was one elderly man hunched over a pint glass, half asleep and swaying with his face hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Remembering James’ anxiety, I regarded him carefully but found no cause for concern; he seemed to still be nursing a drink from the night prior. 

Seated at the bar was the same feisty-looking blonde woman who had met us yesterday and who—I assumed by the way she was issuing commands with curt nods of her head and the big set of keys hanging on her belt—was the owner of the establishment. I wondered, vaguely, how she knew James at all and thought that if Holmes were here he would immediately form some conclusion about her beyond what I could see with the naked eye. She turned her head and I immediately looked away, dreading to be caught staring. Before any more thoughts of my friend could fog over my mind in early morning daydreams, Mary’s voice arrived, as welcome as always, echoing through the nearly empty dining room.

“John, my love! Thank Goodness you are awake,” my wife greeted me with the mirth in her tone emanating from every syllable. Her change in spirits when compared to the previous morning was remarkable yet unsurprising—I realised that it was in no small part caused by the presence of the woman beside her. 

Miranda Barlow was rather different in demeanour and appearance to that of Lady Miranda Hamilton of five years ago. Of course, she was the same in all ways that are necessary, but no longer was she adorned in extravagant silks that so often made up the frocks of nobility, nor was the title of cozy aristocracy granting her freedom from the woes of the world. With all that removed, it seemed to make her stature look somewhat smaller. Miranda, I thought, was a woman who was born to dress fashionably. Her clothes now were plain and somewhat worn— I remembered her letters and James’ words, realising that life could not have been easy for them in America. A guilty twinge pierced my heart that I had offered them no financial help in that time, though I doubt they would have accepted it.

More notably, however, Miranda no longer carried the bright joy in her eyes that was so familiar to me in the past. Now, there was a solemnity to the warm expression on her cheek, and much of the—sometimes reckless—joviality about her had vanished without a trace. Her wedding ring still adorned her finger and seeing it, I realised something I had long known anyway—although her marriage with Thomas had been unconventional at best, the love they shared was deep and true. His loss had shaken her to her core. Grief and worry were etched deep into her face, yet when she smiled in greeting some of the familiar warmth returned to her eyes. 

“Hello, my dear!” I greeted them in kind. “Good morning, Miranda.” The ladies seated themselves across from me at the booth. Miranda cast an affectionate glance at Mary and a warm feeling came across me once again at the joy of this reunion.

“Good morning yourself, Doctor. Have you perhaps come across James this morning?” The question fell from her lips as though she had asked it hundreds of times in her life and had always received the same, disappointing answer. She did not meet my eyes.

“No, I cannot say I have. He told me he intended to meet me for breakfast this morning, so I imagine he will not be long.”

Miranda’s eyes scanned the dining room anxiously. “He did not sleep here?”

“Afraid not,” I admitted. “He left on business last night. I am quite certain he is alright, Miranda. He is a very capable man.”

She did not seem comforted or reassured by my words, as her hands kept twitching nervously on the table.

“In the meantime, we must get something to eat, I’m positively starved,” Mary said, waving down the waitress from the other side of the room. I could see that her free hand was hidden under the table, and soon, Miranda’s joined it, undoubtedly to tangle their fingers together. 

In an attempt to quell our worry for James’ absence, we decided to indulge in a full Scottish and take our time with the early morning. Once delivered, the fry-up appeared adequate at first glance, but upon the first bite of sausage, I very nearly spat it out. I swallowed it to maintain any level of propriety I could manage, but after trying the disastrous pile of eggs, I did not dare take my chances with whatever else was on this plate. With a resigned sigh, I pushed the platter away in favour of my half filled cup of tea. Mary and Miranda had much the same reaction to their breakfasts, and we shared a worried look. I did not wish to forego the comfort of a good breakfast, but this would certainly not do. If we had to go looking for breakfast somewhere, we could easily miss James when he returned to the inn as he said he would.

Before one of us could voice those concerns, a clear voice bearing a broad Scots accent boomed toward us from the kitchen door. 

“I hope it’s all to your liking, folks!” A young, clean-shaven man with curly black hair beamed at us from his spot near the bar. His smile was bright and welcoming, though, I thought, it did not appear to reach his eyes. He waved his right hand at us, and I wondered why he elected to shout across the tavern rather than speak at an appropriate volume at closer proximity to us. The owner huffed and rolled her eyes but did not seem surprised at this display. 

The reason for his behaviour became clear as he moved closer at more of a hobble than a walk. The dull sound of a crutch against the wooden floor called my attention to the fact that where the bottom half of his left leg would be, there was nothing at all. Before he could reach our table and undoubtedly ask our opinion of his cooking, the front doors of the tavern opened with a burst of freezing morning air. In the doorway stood none other than James; his form tense but otherwise seemingly uninjured. His gaze found us immediately, and I saw some of the tension in Miranda’s shoulders bleed away as their eyes met. He looked over at our booth of untouched plates before looking back at this unfamiliar one-legged man with a scowl on his face I knew all too well. 

“Silver, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” James spoke as though he knew the man well, and yet was exasperated with his very presence. 

“I was simply being polite and greeting our new guests, Captain. Is there a problem?” Silver—as it seemed his name was—did not lose his grin despite the near murderous look on James’ face. If anything, he seemed _happy_ to see him. He made the rest of his way over to our booth and seated himself next to me, swapping his crutch in his other hand and squeezing himself in the tight spot with a surprising nimbleness. The exchange between Silver and James left me puzzled. I knew very little of James’ time abroad, but a Captain was not something I assumed of him to be. It was not possible for him to be so in a naval capacity, at least. Yet, Miranda seemed unsurprised by the moniker and I was curious as to what the story behind it was. 

“Only a problem for their stomachs—and their ears, I’m afraid. I think I told you to drop the fucking accent.” James walked over to our booth and sat himself opposite us. Up close, I confirmed that he did not seem much worse for wear, though I could see the fatigue and exhaustion in his face. He did not take his discerning eyes off Silver as he sequestered Miranda’s fork in hand and bit off a piece of sausage. He then did what all of us seemed to be too polite to do and spat it out across the floor. “Good Lord. What the _fuck_ did you do to that?” 

“I… cooked it?” Silver replied with a grin, immediately shedding the Scots and now speaking with a fairly indistinguishable English accent. If there was a reason for the deception, I could not discover it before they continued talking—however it troubled me that this man seemed to be capable of lying so easily about something so basic. 

“You absolutely did not.” James spat at the ground again with good measure. His face was stern, yet there was no real tension behind his expression. It was strange to see how different James McGraw was to James Flint. The quiet, refined Navy Lieutenant persona faded away to nothing, and someone grizzled and rough appeared in his place. It was not an unwelcome shift, but knowing the cause of it brought an ache to my heart. “I swear to God, Silver, could you not make a marginally more convincing cover? Literally anything else would have done.”

Silver steadfastly ignored James’ words; I had the feeling he was used to doing so. “I am going to assume that you haven’t told your lovely companions about me,” Silver grinned. “For shame, Captain! And here I thought we were friends.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr.—Silver, was it?” Mary spoke just as James’ scowling was becoming audible. “I am—”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Mary Watson,” Silver interrupted with a grin. The sly, devious smile appeared to be a permanent fixture on his face, the same as his pointed blue eyes or his strong brow. He took Mary’s hand and placed his lips on her knuckles. He moved his eyes over to Miranda next. “And you must be the illustrious Mrs. Barlow! Wonderful to meet you, ma’am. My dear wife has spoken of you with nothing but esteem.”

At the mention of Silver’s wife, Miranda brightened. “Ah, yes, of course! It is truly a pleasure, Mr. Silver, to finally make your acquaintance. Your wife is truly a remarkable woman.” Miranda offered her hand for a greeting and a kind grin. Before I could register her reply, Silver’s emphatic voice returned, his attention now focused on me. 

“Oh, I know that very well Mrs. Barlow, and she herself reminds me of it every day, I must say. And you Sir must be none other than Dr. John Watson, famed biographer!” I nodded and shook his hand in confirmation. It did not escape my notice that he seemed to know all our names before we had said them. “Your stories are quite popular across the pond as well, you know.”

“You met James and Miranda in America?” So many questions about this vibrant man ran through my mind, but the least invasive of them came to my mind first. 

“Quite so! I met the Captain in Savannah just a few years back, in fact. Remind me to tell you the story of how we met, it is—”

“Absolutely not,” James cut across.

Silver grinned and kept talking. "It is truly a remarkable tale. But, work has now taken me back to the Empire.” 

The cadence with which John Silver spoke was one that forced you to listen, and did so much as to convince you that listening was the sole option available to you. Every eye in our party was upon him, though James’ appeared lidded and heavy beneath his usual attentiveness. It appeared as if he did not want to show how closely his ears were attuned to the words coming from his younger friend, yet someone who had seen him listen to the words of Thomas Hamilton could pinpoint it in an instant. 

After some murmured apologies for our foiled breakfast, Silver seemed to make himself comfortable seated in the booth with us. James looked at him for a bit then huffed, got up and vanished towards the kitchen without a word. The owner gave him a questioning look and he nodded, saying something to her out of earshot—her eyes then turned to Silver, sharp as a dagger. Silver returned a bright smile and an apologetic shrug. 

“The Captain will be taking care of your breakfast, so you are in good hands,” Silver explained at our puzzled looks. “He is, I loathe to admit, a _much_ better cook than I. But—that leaves us plenty of time for me to regale you with some of my stories of the Captain’s transatlantic adventures! Now, has he ever told you about the time he stole a Spanish ship? Well, I was there, see—”

Silver spoke of many things with us. Stories of his time as a crewmate for a small whaling ship as a young man, stories told to him by friends who were told those stories by mentors, and, most of all, stories of his life with James, who he seemed to have met in about 1897. Much to my disappointment, he did not say _how_ they had met exactly but as he spoke of boating on their fishing schooner, of ambushing hapless slave traders, and of looting colonial trade stock, I could not help but notice the undisguised affection he held for James. It reminded me of the same spitfire I saw in Thomas Hamilton at that very first salon over six years prior, and the way in which his words created a gravitational force around him. Rather than philosophy or art, though, Silver regaled us with tall tales of far away places and intriguing characters. My feeling of familiarity seemed to be shared among the women beside me as I saw Miranda listen intently, as if she too was desperate for this part of James’ life.

After a while, James emerged with a new set of plates, carrying what looked like a far more edible fry-up for three. He had pointedly not made one for Silver. James sat back next to Miranda in the booth before taking nothing more than a cup of black tea for himself.

“Oh, Lord, Silver. Don’t tell me you have been flapping your gums the entire time I was gone.”

“I resent the implication, Captain! I was telling a few stories to my new friends, that is all,” Silver replied, a false sense of scandal lining his words as he placed a hand upon his chest. “At least, I hope I was not taking too much of a hold upon our conversation. Meeting new people has always been quite exciting.”

“Of course not, Mr. Silver,” I interjected between bites of bacon. “I was quite intrigued by your tales, I assure you.”

He sent that same smile my way, and I could swear I saw a flicker of something in his eye at my words. Such a sight made it difficult to believe that this man was as irritating and incompetent as James’ attitude toward him would indicate. Even in his kind gestures of friendly interaction, it appeared as though he was gathering information; gathering knowledge on the minute aspects of every person at the table. For what purpose, I was not sure.

“You tell tales of your own, don’t you Dr. Watson?” he asked me, reaching over to a table nearby and grabbing a mug of ale that had somehow materialised there. I would have questioned such consumption at the early hour, but it felt rather unnecessary given his otherwise eccentric behaviour.

“Not for some time, I’m afraid,” I admitted. I hoped that the sadness behind my confession was unreadable behind my eyes.

“My dearest John has taken a hiatus from publishing in recent years, but Sherlock Holmes is quite busy at work indeed!” Mary chimed in, I assumed in an attempt to direct Silver’s attention away from my contemplative expression. Her words did little but remind me of the gaping hole in my life that Holmes’ absence has left. 

“That is excellent to hear! Ah, well, I hope that hiatus may come to a close soon enough.”

I hummed in affirmation, an absent smile forming along my face as I continued to eat. The five of us maintained amiable conversation for the remainder of breakfast—though that mostly translated to Silver’s continued storytelling—before the eloquent man excused himself to return to his work. 

“I hope to make your acquaintance again soon, wonderful people. But, I must return to my post for the moment. Fare thee well, Captain.” He winked at James, and placed our empty plates at a nearby table to be fetched by a busboy. He left with the same sharp grin planted upon his face as it had been all morning.

“Well, James, your friend certainly is quite the character,” Mary spoke first. She was jovial in her tone, though, as she always did enjoy eccentric conversation with bizarre individuals. 

“I would not call him a _friend,_ so much as a colleague by obligation,” James sneered, but there was no venom in it. I could not tell if that lack of bite in his words was caused by exhaustion, or by a hidden affection for Silver, but any attempts at discovering the truth behind that were a waste of time at the moment. James McGraw was a difficult enough man to get through the layers of, but it appeared that James Flint was infinitely more complicated to unveil. 

“So, James, what is our course of action for the day? You appear to be the sole holder of that information,” I enquired.

A hush came over the table then, as all four of us seemed to lean in toward one another. In an effort to reduce the radius of the conversation, Mary came around to my side of the booth to listen closer. True, the tavern was run by people who were familiar to James, but the sensitivity of our task was palpable nonetheless.

“I believe my informants have pinpointed a location,” James relayed in a voice similarly hushed. “He is likely not there during the day, so once we have the location, we would not be able to make an approach sundown. At this stage, there is little else to do.” 

He spoke with a finality that sat heavy in the air around us. Much of our next steps were dictated by this evening’s events, and so much of our final strands of hope lay in wait for the answers they may be given. The high-spirited conversation of moments ago was now replaced with the uncertain anxiety. 

“I would like to discuss the details with you later today, doctor. Even now, this is not the most discreet of location, at least not enough for this.”

After some exchanged niceties, the four of us parted ways. Mary and Miranda stayed at the booth, James bade us goodbye with a nod and a quick kiss to Miranda’s cheek before going back out into the frigid January morning, and I ventured back up to my rooms to fetch some privacy so as to write back to London. Or, more specifically, to Holmes. I stared for a moment at the blank page before me, and worried my hands with the pen in my grasp before forcing my hands to write. This was of an importance beyond my agony for him, and there was no time to waste.

_Holmes_

_We arrived safely in Glasgow last night with no difficulty. J and M arranged lodgings for us at The Hangman’s Rest Tavern and Inn. It appears to be run by a young woman, though I am unsure if she is the true owner of the establishment. Both her and the cook of the Tavern—one John Silver—are already familiar with J, and have worked with him in some capacity over the last five years. Little else is known about them at this stage._

_All in regards to our plan has gone smoothly thus far, and it seems that J has quite a firm grasp on the situation at hand with his various informants around Glasgow. Where he obtained such intel while living abroad, I do not know. However, M seems to have worked with Silver’s wife in America as well, and there may be some link between the inner workings of Savannah and Glasgow which I am unaware of._

_J is rather different than he was when we knew him. I know you did not have many positive interactions with the man, but it seems that life in America has affected him in no insignificant manner._

_I will report back tomorrow with a more informative update to our situation, but I thought it wise to make you aware of our location._

_Best of wishes_

_John Watson_

I sealed the letter in one of the several envelopes I brought in my bags, and addressed it as appropriate:

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes_

_221 Baker Street, Westminster, London_

As I wrote the name and address that so defined the man I wrote to, I thought of the last time I wrote him letters with updates of a case. An old case, from before the Reichenbach Falls or the tragedy of the Hamiltons, when I sent him updates about the mysterious demon hound haunting the Baskerville estate. I had yet to write up the account of such a case, though now it will be known as my return to publishing Holmes’ biographies. Many people wondered why I chose that story above that of Holmes’ return to mark the end of my hiatus. But, I think it may be safe to say that the reminder I felt in this moment was a contributing factor.

Despite returning to the world of the living over half a decade prior, writing these correspondences to him was somehow more distant than when I thought him dead. 

I placed the letter in my inner coat pocket just before hearing a knock on my door. On the other side was none other than Miranda. 

“Hello, John,” she greeted with a smile, though, there was something pained and anxious in her voice. “Could I have a word with you?”

“Of course! I was about to deliver a letter to the post office if you wish to accompany me,” I offered, welcoming her into the room while I fetched my coat and boots. 

“Excellent!” she chimed. Upon looking back at her as I put on my boots, I noticed her coat was already in her grasp, as though she knew of my plans before knocking.

We made our way down the stairs and out the door of the inn, and ventured out into the chilled Glasgow streets. There were not many other pedestrians walking along the rather quiet road, so our privacy could remain intact. Her arm wound around mine as we walked and our boots made unpleasant damp noises in the mud. I noticed her dress was getting stained but she did not seem to care much.

“Interesting place, this, is it not?” She asked, her eyes distant as she explored the buildings around us. “We did not get many chances to visit Scotland, Thomas and I, though he had family here. Though the smell is much the same, I find it very different to London. There is something different in its air, something that does not strike fear in my heart the way the capital did.” She paused and I watched her extract a halfpenny coin from her purse to give to a street urchin. In a dizzying moment, I recognised this as something I had seen Thomas do, many years ago. Being in Miranda’s presence made me feel ever so close to our friend; for a moment, the loss was so sharp I could scarcely breathe. 

I did not miss the way she said his name, lighter than James, yet I also did not fail to notice her use of the past tense.

“I believe I understand what you mean,” I said slowly. We turned down a street as we saw a sign directing us to the post office. “Do say, Miranda, what was it you wished to speak with me about?” The woman beside me paused for a moment at my question, the red on her cheeks from the cold betraying the grim expression on her face. She took a deep breath.

“It… is about James. Strange. This makes me think of how I have been here to warn you of something similar before, to beg you to keep him safe. Interesting how I am the one to always step into this role.” She said this to herself more so than she said it to me. “The work the both of you are about to embark on this evening is dangerous. Danger is not something altogether uncommon in our new lives. There are aspects of our time in Savannah, John, that I do not know the truth of. Now that I am finally allowed a closer view into his life that I was so often denied, it is the least I can do to make a request of you when I once again know he will not listen.”

“What request is that?” The pain in her eyes indicated the depth of meaning in her words. I knew James valued her, loved her as much as a man of his persuasion could love a wife, but I could also see the hurt his secrets caused her.

“I am aware that violence and darkness cannot be helped in sensitive circumstances such as these. Despite this, I have seen the effects of violence and darkness on him. It changes him, John, into a man that I barely recognise. I do not want this of him. I do not—” She took a deep breath. “I believe Thomas would not want this of him either. So I beg of you, if there is any way at all to spare him from the darkness, to stay his hand from killing Alfred Hamilton, I beg you to look for it.”

“Stay his hand?” I could not help the incredulous huff that left me. “Miranda, the man is so deeply entrenched in his ways that I fear even the smallest attempt to dissuade him would result with my head cut off my shoulders.”

“James would never hurt you,” Miranda replied, resolute. “You mean more to him than he shows. And believe me, I know. When I made this request to him it was— insincere. I want nothing more than to put the noose around Alfred Hamilton’s neck, then pull the lever with my own two hands.” Something dark and dangerous flew over her face but was then gone. “John. If there is a chance in this endeavour, if there is hope for us to save Thomas— this will be a task greater than any of us have ever attempted before. I do not want James to enter it with a more violent mind than is necessary. I fear that, in doing so, the result will only cause him more pain afterward if— if the result is not what we wish it to be. I know you intend to join him tonight, John, and I ask that you do what I cannot.” 

“Of course, Miranda. I will do what I can.” There was nothing else for me to say, in truth. I did not want to see the hateful voice in the depths of James’ soul to leave unneeded agony in his wake any more than Miranda wanted it. And, much as she did, my brief interactions with the new James Flint indicated that such a result would be likely without any intervention.

“Thank you, John. Your aid has been invaluable to us, even all these years later. I hope you know this.”

We reached the post office, I sent off my letter to Sherlock Holmes, and we made our way back to the warm hearth of The Hangman’s Rest, quiet but for the shuffling of our clothes and the mud beneath our shoes.

* * *

In the early evening, James approached me from the chair by the fire I had made my solitary reading spot for the day. 

“Please meet me upstairs in five minutes to discuss the schematics of tonight,” was all he said. I complied without hesitation. After finishing my chapter, and placing my empty mug at the bar, I ventured upstairs to the room not occupied by Mary and Miranda. Inside, I found James and Silver seated around a small round table, most likely brought up from the tavern. Atop it lay what looked like a map, as well as various other documents I could not read from my place at the door. 

“Doctor Watson, hello!” Silver welcomed with a bit less of the—I assumed—trademark glee than he held this morning. So complex an ordeal as this required a bit less charm and considerably more focus. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the empty chair beside him, and I sat down to gaze upon the delicate proceedings. 

“I did not know you were to be involved in this plan, Mr. Silver,” I said. 

“He is one of my primary informants here in Glasgow, doctor. Once he stopped being a useless thief and stealing my hard-earned intel,” the glance he shot at Silver was heated enough to melt steel, “he proved himself to be a useful asset.” Silver’s smile widened at what he seemed to take as a compliment, though he stayed silent. James moved one of the pages around the table to show me. “This is the address of where Ashbourne is staying for the moment. We will leave here on horseback tomorrow evening at nine o’clock sharp, set to arrive a quarter of an hour before ten.”

“It is at the end of a dirt road on the outskirts of the city, and should be marked with a sign labeling it as _The Maria Aleyne Holiday Home._ It’s a secluded holiday house for wealthy nobles who wish to remain unseen by the adoring public. I have... visited it once or twice on professional business,” Silver explained, though the way in which he referenced his profession was loaded with a connotation I could not comprehend. James gave him a long, hard look for a few seconds, but continued to explain.

He went over the locations of all potentially armed guards on the property, present to protect the high profile guests the home so often housed. He went over how we were to enter the facility unseen, and sneak into the private room of Alfred Hamilton while going unnoticed. Silver joined in with an explanation for a door in the fence, an old back exit, now hidden among swathes of shrubbery. 

“You know me, Captain,” he winked at James. “I always prefer the back exit.” James’ eye roll at this was nearly audible.

Silver informed us of an empty room beside Ashbourne’s lodgings that could serve us well for surveillance. James and Silver traded off with separate parts of the explanation, as though in a coordinated dance. I was captivated by their seamless comfort with one another, even in such stressful circumstances, as though planning things like this was their natural habitat with one another. 

“If all those steps go as we hope, then the only thing left to chance is the response of Lord Ashbourne,” James said, the name on his lips emerging like a thick ooze of hatred from deep within him. _Ashbourne_ hissed through his teeth, and the air felt thick with the implication behind the statement. 

This did not feel like my outings with Holmes, uncovering clues to a larger case or story. This felt like a vigilante mission with one aspect left entirely certain as the rest were left up to chance:

James Flint was going to kill Alfred Hamilton. I knew this without a shadow of a doubt.

Later, Silver left us to our lodgings to continue his work about the tavern, as James and I remained in the darkened room. He settled himself onto a chair next to the window, clearly with no intention of sleeping. After some silence, I looked at him, his face looking ghostly as it was illuminated by the moonlight.

“Was that how you knew?” I asked quietly, and my voice did not sound like mine at all. “When you realised that you were ready to kill a man for Thomas. Was this how you knew you loved him?”

I did not know what had pushed me to ask this; perhaps, it was an answer I was seeking within myself, too.

James did not look at me. “Kill a man? No. I knew I loved him when I knew I would kill a nation of men for him. I was ready to wage a war against the entire British empire, all in his name. It must seem odd to you, for you know that Thomas himself shunned violence often. Against his father, however, he held nothing but contempt. I am certain of this.” James’ eyes met mine then, glimmering in the low light of the room. “They say violence begets violence, Doctor Watson, and yet the world has taken so much from men like us. It felt only right that I should answer it by doing great violence against the world myself. We are _good men_. Someone should say so, and someone should be willing to defend it.” He then smiled, but there was no happiness in it, no joy. It was sharp and dangerous. “One man? A hundred men? A thousand men? They would do nothing to keep me away from him. I would lay waste to the entire world, if it meant I could spend one more minute with him. Do not doubt that, even for a second.”

I did not dare doubt him. His statement, spoken so freely in the moonlit silence, left an odd feeling in my chest. Looking away once more, James adjusted himself for a long and lonely watch. _The world has taken so much from men like us._ I tried very, very hard to not think about whether, when he had said _us_ , he had meant him and Thomas or me and him. I turned away from James for I could not bear to look at him now that I saw him as a mirror to the terrible storm within me.


	27. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: intense violence and homophobic language

Next evening, when nine o’clock hit, James and I rode out to the furthest reaches of the Glasgow suburbs, down a country road that veered off the main carriageway and into a secluded, yet well-groomed area of the city. He did not offer much in terms of conversation and neither did I; I kept to my thoughts and focused on the familiar feeling of the horse between my legs. It had been a good while since I had been on horseback, but it is not something one forgets how to do. James was an experienced rider, so I had to focus fully on being able to keep up with him and his impressive black stallion. This helped, as I did not want to think about why we had set out on this dark, cold path and what it was that we were preparing to do. 

I had no illusions as to the animosity James bore for the Earl of Ashbourne, for I held no less of it. Not only due to the monstrous way he had treated Thomas, but in no small part because I could not erase from my mind the image of Holmes’ face when he admitted that Alfred Hamilton had used him for his nefarious purposes. It was not often that I had seen my friend truly terrified, for it was not easy for fear to find him. Yet, that one nightmarish evening, when Miranda and James came to deliver the horrible news that Thomas had been taken, I saw Holmes horrified for the first time in my life. It shook me like nothing else in my life before it. I cannot describe the terror that gripped my stomach like a vice at his face; the sheer hatred and anger I felt at the man who had caused that expression to appear there.

Maybe, just maybe, I understood some of the monster that James was trying so hard to tame within himself. 

James pulled his horse into a nearby clearing and dismounted, signaling I should do so as well. Keeping ourselves low, we walked to a small forested area and tied our horses to a tree. From his saddlebags, James produced a revolver, sufficient ammo to reload it at least twice, and a dagger that he hid inside the breast pocket of his long coat. Weapons seemed to have a natural home in his hands. After some pondering, I too took my own firearm into my grip.

“We continue on foot,” James said, his voice low. “Stay behind me and do as I say.” 

With a careful, quiet step we walked around the forested area and the hill that surrounded it. As we exited into a valley, a house revealed itself to us, hidden away masterfully within the landscape. It was not overwhelming in its grandeur, yet it was not modest either; surrounded by a stone fence, a well manicured garden and standing at least three stories tall. A small wooden sign on the iron gate simply said,  _ The Maria Aleyne Holiday Home. _

“Just where Mr. Silver said it would be,” I confirmed quietly with James. He scowled.

“I wouldn’t hurry thanking him just yet.” He eyed the fence, which was about a person and a half tall. “I should be able to vault this if we are to approach from the back. You would need to prop me up and then I let you in through the back gate. Will your shoulder handle it?”

I did not ask how he had noticed my bad shoulder. “I will be fine,” I reassured James, sounding much braver than I felt. “Lead the way.”

James gave me a curt nod and we walked around the fence to a side of the house where all the windows were dark. The moon was waxing, and it cast enough light on our side that I did not have to worry about tripping, yet I was concerned about sneaking in the way James had suggested. He was a lean yet sturdy adult man, and I hoped that my injury would not impede me from carrying his weight. 

I need not have worried. The moment I presented my hands for James to bounce off of, he did so with a careful, measured step that I hardly felt as a pressure and a slight twinge in my shoulder. Once again, I was amazed by the sheer strength in his otherwise not too bulky body, as he pulled himself up and looked over the fence to scout the terrain. Then, quickly, he vaulted himself and disappeared beyond the fence. I heard the soft thud of his boots on the other side, however the sound was quiet enough that it almost did not reach my ears.

I exhaled and hurried towards the back gate of the property, which was—again, proving Silver’s words true—small and shrouded in unkempt shrubbery. I had the smallest view towards the inside of the garden, yet James was not in sight. I stood there for what felt like twenty agonising minutes, just waiting, wondering if he had been spotted and killed and if I was to follow his fate soon after. 

My worry was needless however, as I soon saw the distinctive shape of James making his way through the shrub. He produced a set of keys from his belt and opened the door with a loud squeak. I snuck in, looking around anxiously.

“James, someone must have heard that.”

“I’ve taken care of the guards on the perimeter that could have been within earshot,” he replied. It was then I noticed that he was somewhat out of breath and there was a splash of blood on the side of his face. “Not mine,” James said as he saw where my eyes went. “We should have a clear path to the house.”

I did not ask about the blood stain on his coat, undoubtedly there because of James putting the stained dagger back in his pocket. I did not ask how he had “taken care” of the guards, or where he had put them. I felt a sick feeling in my gut. I had given my word to Miranda to spare James the unnecessary violence if I could—yet, I had already failed even before we had found the Earl’s rooms. 

There was a look of corded unease in James’ face. “This is too easy,” I heard him mumble under his breath. “This is too easy.”

It was a thought he perhaps did not mean to voice, yet one that made me worried nonetheless. I gripped my revolver tighter.

We made our way back through the servants’ entryway, James using the key he must have taken from one of the guards to open the door. We found ourselves in a food store at the lowest level of the house; the rich smell of salted meats permeated the air around us. Carefully, we made our way up the stairs and into the dark hallway. 

A man in a dark coat was leaning against the main door, a musket on his back. I froze as James strode forward with a quiet step. He looked very much like a prowling lion, hunting for his prey. Quiet and lethal, James’ hand covered the guard’s mouth and, before the man could react, a dagger was pressed through his throat with a terrifying squelching sound. 

James slowly lay the convulsing body at his feet and, feeling faint, I moved closer to him.

“Did you need to murder him, James? Could you not have made him lose consciousness?”

“Would you have preferred he woke and shot us in the back?” James hissed. “I have no remorse for killing men who serve the Earl of Ashbourne, doctor.”

Now was not the time to question him, not in this dangerous moment. I swallowed my unease and followed him as we crept through the house, deadly quiet and wary of creaking floorboards beneath our feet. 

Without meeting any resistance, we reached the third door to the right of the top floor—the master bedroom. I tried the door to the left of it with a gentle hand. It was cracked open and it did lead, as predicted, to a seemingly empty room.

This was the critical moment. If Silver’s reconnaissance had failed here, of all places, we were both going to be dead before sunrise.

James’ eyes met mine. I clutched my revolver and wished, perhaps for the millionth time in this terrifying evening, that Holmes’ level-headed, rational mind was with us. I found myself horrified at the thought that I may never see him again. 

But this fear was not going to help me now. I nodded and then James opened the door to the room. 

We both let out matching exhales of relief when we saw the grand bed and the sleeping form of the Earl in it. We had made it. We were here.

The moment his eyes fell on the sleeping man, James’ face turned into something horrifying in the moonlit room. With his bald head, pale skin and the darkness over his eyes, he looked very much like a skeletal form, completely devoid of life and blood. 

“Bolt the door, Doctor Watson,” he said quietly, not looking at me. “Stay in the shadow. Avoid showing your face.” 

Stunned, I hurried to do his bidding, unwilling to disobey him in this most dangerous of moments. With the same prowling, hungry step that I had seen before, James approached the bed and took out his dagger. He then pressed it right to the Earl’s jugular and hissed through gritted teeth, poison dripping in every word.

“Good evening,  _ my Lord. _ ”

The man in the bed was awake in an instant, as if he had been splashed with a bucket of ice water. His eyes were a hideous shade of blue in the pale light of the room and hauntingly familiar—Thomas, I realised in horror, had his father’s eyes. 

“If you scream, I will cut your throat.” The tone of James’ voice left no room for negotiation, no room for begging. Alfred Hamilton looked as if he was going to try anyway. I took my revolver out of my pocket, yet stayed in the shadow just as James had beckoned me to do. 

“I have money, I will give you all the money you could want, all the money you could ever need,” The Fourth Earl of Ashbourne said in a pathetic, trembling voice as James dragged him to his feet and off the bed. I could not believe that once this man had looked so large and imposing to me—now, clad only in his underclothes and without his hideous wig, he was a shriveled old fellow, who looked frail in James’ strong grip. I clenched my teeth. I thought of the letter Mary had forwarded us from Savannah, word for word the very words that Lord Ashe had used to inform us of Thomas’ demise echoed through my mind.  _ He could not withstand the weight of his own terrible crimes and he slashed his own arms open.  _ I remembered Miranda, wrecked with tears, clutching onto James’ shoulders as if she would be swept away by the torrent of her own grief if she let go. 

I remembered Holmes’ face, pale and terrified in the dark parlour of 221B Baker Street. 

I felt no remorse, watching this man suffer. No guilt. No shame. 

God forgive me.

With a rough knee to the back of the old man, James brought him to kneel, his strong hands not allowing the Earl to turn around and look at his face. The dagger remained pressed at the vulnerable spot of his throat and I could see Hamilton’s skin moving, panicked against the blade as he took pained breath after pained breath.

“Where is he?” James’ voice was shaking with the thunderous force of his rage.

“Where is— where is who?”

“Your eldest son. The one you doomed without the blink of an eye. The one whose life you ruined.” Careful, I stepped outside of Alfred Hamilton’s line of sight, still leaning towards the shadows. I took a step towards James. I wanted— I don’t know what I wanted. To comfort him, somehow. To bring him back from this chasm he seemed to be losing himself into. I didn’t stand a chance, but I owed it to us to try.

“Flint.” I had to call him by his alias, lest the Earl recognised him. My voice was barely a whisper but it seemed to bring him back to the present moment.

“Thomas Hamilton. Where is he and what have you done to him?”

“Tho—” The Earl struggled in James’ arms once again, trying to wring his neck to see who it was that had a grip on him. “What are you talking about, you lunatic? My son died in Reading Gaol in 1897. Are you mad? Unhand me!”

James’ blade pressed closer. I heard the Earl’s breath hitch. “I’m not going to ask again. Where is he?”

“Who is this? I know your voice, I—  _ McGraw?  _ Is that you? You—” all the begging had left Hamilton’s tone and he seemed to be spluttering. “You maniac, I will have you  _ committed.  _ What on  _ Earth  _ has possessed you?” 

My breath quickened but James did not at all react to being identified with his given name. He was a man with a one-track mind. “Where is Thomas?”

“In the fucking ground where he—”

_ Whack.  _ The handle of James’ dagger collided with the Earl’s temple and the old man howled in pain as a wound bloomed on his head, red and dangerous in the cold light of the moon. 

“Where is he?” 

“What did you think would happen to a goddamn  _ buggerer _ —”

_ Whack.  _ I bit my lip as I saw the muscles in James’ arms tremble with the effort to not slash the man’s throat right there and then.

“Call him  _ one more foul thing  _ and I swear to God, I will slit your throat like the fucking pig that you are.”

“James,” I said, louder, which made Alfred only squirm in James’ arms more.

“Who else is there? Who is it?” Thankfully, we had only conversed in person once, and he had failed to remember my voice. “Tell this lunatic to let go of me! Call the police!”

I felt that I had to use the fact that I had not been identified to our advantage. Still, I made my voice drop an octave deeper just in case. “We have spoken to the superintendent of Reading Gaol. We know that Thomas Hamilton has not been a prisoner there since 1897, and we know he didn’t expire there. Tell us where he is and your life will be spared, Sir.”

Now completely devoid of any desire to beg, Hamilton attempted to bite at the hand James was holding him with. James, fortunately, was too clever for a trick such as this and kicked him again to prevent it. “You fucking  _ degenerate _ ,” he spat, breathing heavy and pained. “You— You’re Flint? You’re  _ the  _ Flint? The man who has been— the man raiding every single transport of cotton from the Americas to my factories, to my businesses? You fucking reprobate, just wait until—”

I gawked at this sudden, breathtaking revelation but James did not leave time for my bewilderment. “You have no idea of the misery I can bring to your wretched life,” he growled. “You have no idea what I am capable of.”

“The income I lost because of you! All that money, down the drain!” Something in the Earl seemed to win over James as he wrenched his wrist at a bad angle, making his grip falter and drop the dagger. Only now, the old man seemed ready to fight himself, ready to explode in his anger towards James. I quickly intervened, seizing his freed hand and helping James regain control of the prisoner. 

With a wild expression in his face, James twisted the Earl’s hand painfully. “I’ll ask you one last time—”

“You want to know where he is?” Hamilton spat. “You will  _ never  _ know. You can kill me if you want, you can burn my body and piss on my ashes, and you won’t be able to stop him from  _ rotting!  _ And it’ll be your fault, you mindless degenerate. Entirely your fault.” 

This was more than nothing, and James knew it. He pressed on the bent hand again. “What do you mean? Speak!” 

With a breathless gasp, Hamilton said: “I could no longer afford the expense of his care here. I could no longer afford the stain he brought on our family name, the  _ costs  _ of it alone. So he is leaving. He is leaving to a place you will never find him, a place where they will electrocute sense into his head, a place where he will disappear from the face of God’s earth.” I could swear that the devil was smiling, despite the pain. “Perhaps that will hurt you worse, McGraw, will it not? Knowing that he  _ is  _ alive and sent away from England to die because of  _ your actions _ ? My son will burn in hell, and he will deserve every second of it. As will you!”

I could see the shock on James’ face as he assimilated the information, I could see his teeth grinding, his hands shaking. Before I could stop him, he let go of the Earl and reached into his pocket, pressing the barrel of his revolver to the back of the man’s head. 

“James, no.” I couldn’t drop my grip, even as the Earl thrashed wildly against me, but I was frozen in mute horror, as I watched the angry tears fill James’ eyes. “James. Don’t do this. Be the better man, James.”

For a second, I thought I had succeeded. I thought I had gotten through to him, I thought I had appealed to his good sense, the remains of James McGraw that I was certain still lived deep within him. For a second, I thought I saw his grip on the firearm falter. 

It was no falter. It was the pull of a trigger. I only managed to let go just in time as a mighty bang echoed in the room and Alfred Hamilton’s head exploded mere inches from me. 

Blood showered us both as the mangled corpse fell from my grasp, twitching still in his post-mortem shock. I watched, yet I did not see, for the gunshot had transported me in a time more violent, a time when gunpowder and sweat and tears had become my very blood. For a second, I thought I could feel the mud in my mouth as I kneeled in the trenches. For a second, I was ready to shoot the man next to me, to rip him open with my own teeth, to do  _ anything _ . 

It passed, as it always had. I blinked my eyes open and suddenly I was no longer in a trench, under a red sky, covered in debris. I was in a dark bedroom, with the moon shining through the window, and the bloody, twitching corpse of Alfred Hamilton in front of me. 

Shaking from head to toe, I turned to look at James. His breath was coming out in short, pained bursts. He was still holding the smoking gun and the entire side of his face was covered in blood, bone and viscera. 

He turned to look at me. On the bloodied mask of his face, his green eyes shone wildly. He looked like the devil himself.

“I have never been a good man, Doctor Watson,” James spoke with the voice of a man I did not know. A voice of a man I feared. “And it is too late for me to start now.”

The rage radiating off him was animalistic, feral with its intensity. Before I could stop him, he bared his teeth and shot two more bullets into Alfred Hamilton’s lifeless corpse.


	28. XIV

The sounding of the midnight bell of the clock in the hallway shook me out of my stupor. Alfred Hamilton’s private room was awash with the scent of blood and gunpowder. One thought crossed my desperate, fear-addled mind: _We have to get out of here._

“I know,” James said and I turned to look at him, crouched beside the Earl’s writing desk. I did not realise I had said my thoughts aloud. “Just give me one moment.”

“James, the entire house will be upon us in mere minutes!” I could scarcely breathe with the anxiety tearing through my gut. “The gunshots—”

“I know,” he repeated through his teeth. He did not look at me. “I have to—”

“What on Earth could possibly be looking for to—”

“Something! Anything! Anything to tell me where to _keep looking_ , anything to give me a clue, I can’t give up now, I can’t leave him—”

Footsteps approached hurriedly up the stairs as banging started on the doors of the hallway, getting closer to us. This could mean nothing but certain death. I could not let this happen; I had promised Miranda that I would avoid this outcome at any cost and I had failed but I could not let it cost us our lives. I caught James’ elbow and pulled him with some force. 

“James, good Lord man, we need to _leave!_ ”

Exasperated, James stuffed a random assortment of papers in his coat pocket. His hands still trembled as he reloaded the three bullets in the chamber of his revolver but his eyes were clearer, no longer fogged with the frenzy I had seen before. The blood was still running down his face.

“There is no escape from here, Doctor. The height would be too far for us to jump from. We have no time to be fashioning a rope out of bed sheets. The only way out is the way we came in.” 

He looked around the room and went to a solid-looking table. “Help me with this.”

Together, we dragged the table to lie on its side, a makeshift cover for us to crouch behind. My heart was racing wildly in my ears as we knelt behind it and James focused his attention on the approaching footsteps.

“We have twenty shots between us. There are only two men coming for now, judging by the steps. The vanguard. But there may be more behind them; how far, I do not know.” James gave me a grave and serious look, the look of a commander looking to bring an army into battle. “I suggest you do not waste your bullets, Doctor Watson.”

My breath caught in my throat, painful and raw. I hoped, I prayed to get out of this alive. I prayed to see those I loved again. I prayed for a final chance to hear Holmes’ voice again.

The voices were coming closer. Two doors away now. James cocked his gun.

I heard the banging on the door to the left of ours, the one leading to the empty room. If only we had had the chance to use it, to maybe lie in wait! I cursed myself for following with James’ murderous impulse.

Then, the knock upon our door, a rattle of the door handle, a muffled voice: “Hello! Are you in there?”

Something changed instantly in James’ face when he heard the man on the other side of the door. His eyes widened in disbelief. “Impossible.”

Another voice joined with the first one, a gruff, low tone, that scraped like gravel into my ears. That was the voice of a man who did not waste time, and was not about to start now. “Flint, you stupid motherfucker, if you don’t come out _right now_ —”

I did not hear the end of this baffling sentence because, suddenly, the world around us exploded in a ball of flame and with it a big, horrible sound that left my ears screaming. 

Everything was spinning. Debris and stone was raining all around us and all I could do was curl upon myself in a pure instinct of self preservation. Despite my shock, despite the tremors wrecking my body, despite the horrendous fear that I felt, I knew what this was. I had seen it far too many times to mistake it for anything else. This was an explosion. An explosion that had come from the neighbouring room, the one we were told was empty. A planned one, no less. 

I had no time to ruminate on this fact as I heard the door smash open, clearly kicked in. Before I could reach for my gun, I felt a hand pulling on my forearm. “Doctor Watson! Don’t shoot them.” It was James. His breath was coming in short bursts and I could see a wound blooming on his forehead where something had clearly hit him. “We need to move, Doctor, now!” 

“It would be just _lovely_ if you didn’t shoot us as we’re trying to save you, thanks,” the voice of the first man who had approached the door came from my other side and took hold of me as James let me go. It held a slight lilt and poise in it, even in its urgency. I could not see the face of its owner through the smoke, however James seemed to believe it to be safe as I could see him leaning on another man through the haze. So I took a deep breath, took the hand offered to me and let myself be led outside the burning inferno.

As I leaned upon the mercy of a stranger with smoke choking my lungs, and screams and, Good Lord, the _smell_ of the world burning around me, I had to fight back against the same awful memories that James’ gunshot had awoken just moments prior. Now, they were domineering, and pushing against my mind with as much force as the thick fog of smoke. It was as if I was thirty years-old again, rushing through the shambles of a barricade we hoped would protect us, and I was just able to escape before a searing pain shot through me. The heat alone was unbearable. It bled into every single fold of my skin and I was certain, as certain as I had ever been, that I was going to die. 

“Just a little longer, my good fellow,” the man next to me said—some young corporal, taking me to safety, why wasn’t he running? “No time to die today I’m afraid.”

When my senses finally came back to me I was back inside my own aged body and far from the Indian desert. Instead, I was standing beside the man who saved my life—not a corporal at all, but a squirrel-faced man with the most astonishingly hideous set of facial hair I had ever seen in my life. He gave me a self-satisfied grin and I turned around, panicked. In the light cast by the burning remains of the _Maria Aleyne Holiday Home_ , I saw James’ silhouette, standing next to the other man in the pair who had come to our aid.

The other stranger turned to me. He was a clean-shaven, muscular man, with a firm-set jaw and cropped, wavy hair. “Get back on the horse, we have to get out of here before anyone sees us,” the same deep, throaty voice came from his mouth. “We will have to share, I’m afraid. Jack and I were spotted by militia on the way here. We took care of them, however our horses paid the toll.”

“Militia?” James asked, spinning on his heel to look at the man incredulously, although the movement seemed to hurt him. He was more injured than I had thought at first glance. “You brought the fucking _militia_ here?”

“Relax. No one knows you’re here.” The man next to me—Jack, it would seem—waved his hand. “They think we’re just common thieves, looking to rob some rich men out of the money they have earned by virtue of sitting on their arses. On any other day, they would not be wrong.” 

The gruff man standing next to James shot Jack a dangerous look. “We don’t have time for this. We need to leave before more arrive. Flint, where are your horses?”

James abandoned whatever argument he seemed to be ready to start and we led the other two back to our horses. I rode with the man named Jack, while James was helped up on his stallion by his companion. We reached a clearing after ten minutes or so of high-speed riding which was when we felt it was safe enough to finally break the silence. 

“Vane, I’m not taking another step until you tell me how the _fuck_ you knew where we were,” James spoke first. “The last time I saw you, you were vandalising segregated signage in Virginia.”

The man called Vane huffed a humourless laugh. “You think Madi and Max would just let you up and leave without a word of goodbye? You’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

“I left a note,” James grit through his teeth.

“Oh yes,” Jack piped up from behind me. “ _I’m off on a suicidal mission to Scotland, I’ll never see you again, take over my house for a base of operations, cheerio!_ Did you honestly think that would work? Knowing what you know of those two?”

It appeared that James knew both these men well enough to speak to them with a casual air I had only seen him share with Silver up to this point. The pace of the conversation was giving me a feeling of whiplash so I asked the question that seemed most pertinent to me:

“What happened back there? What was the explosion?” 

“You’ve got a stool pigeon in your ranks,” Vane grunted, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Someone betrayed your plan.” 

“We have yet to uncover who that someone may be, but the list of options is rather slim,” Jack explained. “ _We_ learned about it through Max’s people, but they never would rat you out. They know she would gut them if they tried.”

James scoffed, clearly filled with disdain. “I knew Max would get wind of it sooner or later. No. There’s only one weasel on our side that could be behind this and it isn’t just me and the doctor he’s betrayed. Was that too difficult a leap for your tiny brain to figure out, Rackham?” 

Jack Rackham raised his chin in defiance. “I will take no comments from _you_ of all people regarding the size of any parts of my anatomy, thank you very much. Or do you want me to start talking about your—” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Vane interrupted, loudly. “You may very well be right, Flint, but we can’t do anything about that in the middle of this fucking field, now can we?” He had an informal way of speaking that I had yet to see in any of James’ new colleagues, but his succinctness was much appreciated. 

Even though I could not see his face, I could tell Jack was smug. “We will have to take the long way around, lest we be caught by Glasgow bobbies in the dead of night on horseback.” The lilt I had first noticed in his voice sounded again—I imagined it was natural to his way of speaking. “Apologies for the lack of detailed introductions, Doctor Watson, but I think we may need to find a roof over our heads and a stiff drink before we exchange niceties and personal histories, don’t you?”

I obliged with a silent nod, and the four of us rode the long way back to The Hangman’s Rest.

* * *

Our unusual company entered the tavern in quite the state—James and myself still covered in blood and debris, Vane and Jack’s clothes were scorched, and James was bleeding from the wound in his head. There were a small handful of patrons lining the bar stools and booths of the pub, engaged in hushed conversations. Smoke was curling up towards the low ceiling. From the second we walked in, I spotted the unmistakable shape of John Silver, leaning against one of the support beams in the middle of the room, his curved smile directed at a young man around his age. Rather than the crutch he used that morning, he had a wood and metal prosthetic affixed to his leg. Before I could register the stares being sent our way from the concerned customers, James stormed up to Silver and pushed him against the pole, leaving his companion startled and wide-eyed at the scene in front of him.

The blonde woman was once again tending to the bar. She shot one look at James and turned around. “Everyone out. _Now!_ ” Without a second thought, every single patron of The Hangman’s Rest scurried out the door, cowering from the owner’s raised voice almost as much as from the bloodied, feral man before them. Vane and Rackham seemed unperturbed at the scene happening in front of them and they sauntered over to the bar. 

“Good evening, Eleanor,” Vane greeted with a wide smile. “Long time no see.”

The only reply given was a “Fuck you, Charles,” as the blonde owner sneered at his face. She promptly ignored Jack’s attempts to get himself a drink. 

For all their nonchalance, no one seemed to be marginally worried that James was ready to kill Silver with his bare hands. I wondered whether this was all just a bizarre dream.

“I take it the plan did not go as we thought it would?” Silver raised an eyebrow, clearly unperturbed by James holding him up against the wall. “And if you’re going to push me up against the wall, you’re gonna have to pay like everyone else I’m afraid. Though I might be willing to give you a steep discount.”

“What the _fuck_ do you think happened, you rat?” James spat at him.

“I’m no clairvoyant, Captain,” Silver attempted to look at the three of us for some more sensical explanation, but James forced his gaze back to him with a rough shake of his shoulders. 

“I should think you know full well what happened since you started it! Now speak before I slit you from cock to gullet.”

“I—I, erm…” Silver stammered, and before I knew it, the man I met earlier that day had crumbled into nothing but a frightened child. It seemed that James Flint was quite capable at bringing primal fear out in people, even well armoured men such as Silver.

James did not say another word, but he was clearly ready to make good on his promise as he reached for his already bloodied dagger. 

“James—” I started, wondering if my efforts may place me in the firing line of his poisoned stare. “Are you certain that he was the one to have done it? Is it possible that someone else could have—”

“No one else knew the bloody plan!” He did not look my way, in favour of keeping his eyes on Silver. My heart raced, and I doubted anything I could muster from my words would be useless here. Was James so set in his mind that he would kill another man in a single night? Even a man he claimed to trust, a man who had called him a friend? My heart skipped a beat at the thought of it. The more his violence painted itself upon his face and his hands, the more I struggled to recognise this grizzled, hardened man who had once spoken so eloquently of philosophy, history, and civil rights in Thomas’ salon.

“I assure you, Captain, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re referring to. I created the plan myself, helped you gather all the necessary pieces. Why in God’s name would I wish to sabotage it, when my reputation is on the line?” Silver pleaded, his wit returning to him with every syllable. 

“Then who, _pray tell,_ could have done it?” James wielded his dagger up to Silver’s throat, in much the same manner he had just an hour previous to Alfred Hamilton. Silver did not flinch, however.

“Well, for starters, anyone standing in this tavern,” an all too familiar voice—quite definitely not that of John Silver—spoke over the top of the existing feud, and froze me in my tracks. It was a voice I would recognise on my deathbed.

Just beside the door of The Hangman’s Rest, stepping out from the shadow in his typical winter suit, coat, and hat, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

Every eye moved from James and Silver to the form of my friend, including my own, and I felt my heart move to my throat. 

“Holmes?” fell from my lips.

“Hello, Watson. I hope you do not mind my rude intrusion, however I thought my insight may prove vital in preventing the unnecessary murder of an innocent man. And you know how much I despise things that are unnecessary.”

Holmes moved toward James and Silver with a delicate, calculated step. James’ dagger stayed planted at Silver’s throat, but with somewhat less force than a moment before.

“I suppose I owe you a greeting as well, Lieutenant. Or should I say, Mr. Flint,” Holmes said, reaching to remove the blade from James’ grasp. “It has been far too long since last we saw each other.”

James stared, blankly, at Holmes as he allowed the dagger to fall from his grip, and into that of his interloper. 

_Lieutenant?_ Silver mouthed curiously at me.

“Sherlock Holmes? The bloody detective?” Jack Rackham’s voice rang from the bar. “Just what we fucking needed.” However, I was blind and deaf to anything and anyone in the room now. Hearing the name said by someone who could confirm his presence to be beyond a fantasy made something within me shiver. He was here, before my eyes, for the first time in months. The adrenaline of the evening slammed against a wall of affection that I could do nothing to stop. 

“Quite right, my friend,” Holmes replied without looking back at Jack. “Here to inform Mr. Flint of some rather delicate information he may wish to know.” 

“What information could you possibly hold that I need to know, _Holmes?”_ James huffed, though it was not convincing. The arrival of my friend had shaken him, and he now watched him with a keen eye; all the violence gone from his tense frame. “Last time I was in contact, I thought I had made it quite clear to you that I do not want you to involve yourself in this more than necessary.”

“Information that may make you want to unhand your colleague here, at the very least. Watson?” Holmes turned his head toward me, without taking his eyes off James. 

“Y-Yes?” I forced out of my trembling lips.

“Is there a more… private location we can take this conversation to? I suspect that, considering his injuries, Mr. Flint’s energy is unlikely to last all evening without somewhere to sit.”

“Of course.” I moved closer to him, but not enough to feel his presence in the room more than I could handle. James released Silver from his firm grasp, and a sigh—of relief, or exasperation?—fell from him. 

“Don’t concern yourself with my injuries or my energy,” and truly, even when diminished and wounded, I did not doubt James’ capacity. “The rooms upstairs will be suitable.”

“We’ll just stay here, I guess!” Rackham bellowed behind us as I nodded towards the stairwell. Holmes started forward, not turning around to meet my eyes. James and Silver went in front of me and I heard their conversation clearly.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Silver hissed at James, evidently recovered from his state of shock. “You’re angry at me for something I didn’t even _do_.”

“Who else was I going to suspect to have sold us out?”

“Literally _anyone_ else!” Silver sounded indignant at the very suggestion. “We have been working together for _months_ , Captain, and have I once betrayed your trust? Who do you think was it that convinced Madi that you were to be trusted when you materialised in Savannah out of nowhere? Who was it that stopped Max when she was ready to set her assassins on you? When—” Silver tripped up the stairs and James steadied him with a hand on his elbow. “When Mr. Dufresne was trying his very best to kill you, who was it that split his skull in two?” Silver’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Perhaps you need to get it through your thick head that, at times, I’m the only man in a 100 mile radius that _doesn’t_ want you dead.”

If James did say anything in reply to this odd discussion I did not hear it, but he did not take his hand off Silver’s forearm. We reached my rooms and slipped inside, as Holmes locked the door behind us with a decisive clang.


	29. XV

“Holmes, I thought you were—” I began to ask, but my friend’s warm hand touched my shoulder to silence me as we entered my room. The table from earlier that evening was still in its place, as were the three chairs from our meeting. 

“Hush, now, Watson. I will explain it all in due time, I assure you. Now, be seated, if you please.” His tone was calm, but intentional, and his voice was in a whisper, as if the words existed solely for my ears—though I doubted Silver and James could not hear it. There was a tenderness emanating from him that made my heart feel alight with emotion I had not felt in ages. I wondered if the intimate nature of it was fabricated somehow—a facade of some kind to make me believe his intentions lay elsewhere from the truth. Why he would fool me in such a manner was even less sensical, but my mind wandered to the possibility all the same. I felt that any perceptions of him I formed in past years were now irrelevant, and the man before me was almost as unfamiliar as the other two in the room. 

James fetched a cloth from beside the basin, wetting it in the water there, and wiped his face clean of blood and soot. He offered me a clean dampened cloth to wash myself, and I accepted with a nod. Silver sat down at the furthest chair from the door, and James and I followed soon after while Holmes elected to lean against the wall and light a cigarette from his shining silver case. 

“So, Mr. Holmes, what information do you have to regale us with?” Silver asked, propping his foot up against the vanity beside him. 

“It is a rather sprawling and nebulous tale, gentlemen, but I assure you it is worth your time. First, I would like to make some things clear to you. Thomas Hamilton is alive, Mr. Silver is innocent, and the owner of this tavern is not as trustworthy as you may think.” 

A muscle twitched under James’ eye at Thomas’ name spoken so freely in the room. I knew that he had known—had hoped—that this would be true, however anxiety still remained in the hard line of his shoulders for reasons I could not comprehend.

Silver was looking at James and chose to speak instead. “We had indeed been hoping that the first statement is true, Mr. Holmes, hence our presence here.” The mention of Thomas’ name didn’t seem to phase him—Silver knew of James’ past, then. “And as much as I appreciate you vouching for my honour, I believe we would all like to hear of the events that led to your presence here with us tonight.”

“Of course. I shall begin, then.” Holmes took an inhale from his cigarette before exhaling the smoke across the room, ceremoniously beginning his mysterious story. I could not help the captivation that came over me at the energy he held. 

“In the years since last we were in contact, Mr. Flint, I have involved myself in many cases aligned with the work yourself and Thomas had started some years ago. I much appreciated your correspondence warning me against it, though I was at first confused as to why you did not send this under your own name.” This made my eyebrows rise, as I had not been aware James and Holmes had at all been in contact in our half decade apart. “In recent months, prior to your departure to Scotland, I uncovered some truths I do not believe you, or anyone in this room, to be privy to.

“In July of last year, I was hired on by Scotland Yard for a case to find the missing daughter of a Peer of the Realm, one Abigail Ashe.” At the name, I heard a sharp inhale from James, as if he recognised its origin. “Whilst the nature of the missing persons case was rather fascinating, I shan’t regale you with it now, as that is not what I find to be most relevant to you. During the initial investigation, I met with the young girl’s father, one Lord Peter Ashe. I visited his home to examine it for any clues, and held a brief interview with him. Of course, I had been made familiar with the name before from a correspondence _you_ sent me one year prior, Mr. Flint, but I did not believe his connection to you or the Hamiltons to be of relevance to his missing daughter. I did, of course, look into his deeds when you made me aware of him, though nothing of interest came up—he was a widowed man, raising his only daughter, and had recently come into a high-level appointment at Whitehall, which was not surprising due to his political achievements. But, now that I sat in his home and drank his tea, I observed something rather uncomfortably familiar in his parlour. An ornate, wooden clock upon his mantlepiece, with gold plated hands.”

My friend delivered his sentence with the tone of a big revelation, so I thought back to what he may have been referring to, and came up short. Silver looked similarly confused. However, James stiffened beside me, his eyes wide.

Holmes acknowledged his reaction and turned to myself and Silver. “You see, gentlemen, I am not a forgetful man. My work resides solely in the details, and the gold plated hands of this clock and the sound of its bell rang ever so familiar in my mind. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I had seen this clock before, and that it had been somewhere of importance. After a moment of rumination, I remembered. I had seen it five years prior, in the parlour of a house in Palace Street, where I attended a rather memorable salon hosted by Lord Thomas Hamilton.”

At that, James stood with a start, chest heaving with lofty breaths. In the dim lighting of the oil lamp, I saw a redness in his features that was not born of blood or fire from before. I saw something whirring behind his eyes, the ghosts he thought were long dead had come back to haunt him. The realisation crashed down on me before I could voice it—for now Holmes’ explanation made perfect sense. I myself had seen this clock many times when I had visited the Hamiltons’ house or shared a glass of port with Thomas, caught in conversation until we were brought back to reality by its chime. The memory made my heart ache.

This ache paled in comparison to the distress on James’ face. Silver watched him closely, looking for all he was worth like he wanted to provide a measure of comfort yet was unsure how to. James looked as if he was going to set fire to the first man to touch him. 

“Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me—” he could not manage to finish the thought, so Holmes did it for him.

“I am rather afraid I do, Mr. Flint. It appeared that Lord Ashe had come into possession of the old clock belonging to Lord Hamilton and his wife. Now, if your report of his trustworthiness from years ago was correct, why would he have acquired the condemned belongings of an old, imprisoned friend? Would he have bought it at an auction? Surely, that is not something you would expect a trusted friend to do, would it?

“So, I enquired to Lord Ashe as to where he obtained such a gorgeous decoration, and he confirmed my nefarious suspicion. _It was a present from the Earl of Ashbourne some years ago,_ he said. And while, to any other man, his words may have meant nothing, to me they meant everything. In an instant, the missing pieces to the tragedy of Lord Thomas Hamilton fell into place. There were several aspects of that story that never sat well with me, you see. How would Lord Ashbourne have uncovered such a secret of his son’s indecency without someone to inform him? Would he have taken the word of just any man, with enough conviction to have the young Lord Hamilton indicted and imprisoned? For many years, I had placed the blame on myself. Ashbourne had threatened me as a means to keep me placated as a pawn against his son, but the most I did was request my brother’s aid with his contacts at Whitehall—nothing more. I had no interest in Thomas Hamilton’s ruin, and in fact did all in my power to prevent his terrible fate. The fact that it was not enough was—” 

Holmes’ thoughts trailed off uncharacteristically as he met James’ eyes. Something unspoken passed through them, silent but powerful. There was a minute nod of James’ head, one that could have been missed by a less observant man. _Forgiveness_ , I realised. Holmes cleared his throat and continued. 

“For the Earl to have gained the evidence provided against Thomas Hamilton, he would have needed someone close to his son to turn over sensitive documents and accounts. Even more so, he would have needed testimony from a trusted individual, who worked with his son in close quarters in the months before his arrest.

“Now, if you eliminate myself from the possible suspects—as I know what my actions were—the list was rather limited. There was Mary and John Watson, yourself, Lady Hamilton and… Lord Peter Ashe. You mentioned in your letter that he had offered to help Lord Hamilton and yourself with his political campaign, correct? Well, it seems that Lord Ashe’s intentions may not have been of the purest sort.”

At this, James began pacing about the small room with his hand on his head. His breaths quickened, and Holmes took pause in his story for a moment. I could do little but watch as Holmes’ truth unraveled before us, and tore James apart. Silver, on his part, seemed to be ruminating, filling in gaps of the story that had been unknown to him before. He looked at James. 

“You said that all the Lords had rejected Thomas’ plan, Captain. That at the time you all felt that Lord Ashe was the only choice you had to go forward.”

“All this time…” James murmured to himself, seemingly lost in his own memories. I was uncertain if whatever else Holmes said would even be heard by the poor man, yet he continued all the same.

“It was only after that interaction that I discovered how far back Lord Ashe’s friendship with Lord Ashbourne went. He had aided him in many lobbying efforts in the past—although this was never documented to the public—and appeared to agree with him on most issues of importance. There was no way that the young Lord Hamilton would have known this before he accepted Lord Ashe’s help. For all he knew, Peter Ashe was still his dear, close friend. If my deduction about his betrayal of the Hamiltons proved correct, I needed to find evidence of it. I knew I had to be careful, lest I scare Ashe into destroying any material proof of his association with the Earl and, more importantly, any clues as to what Lord Hamilton’s fate really was.”

“Peter knew.” James’ voice was weak, and he seemed as if his legs would not hold him up much longer. “He knew Thomas was alive.” 

“I will get to this too, bear with. I solved the case regarding young Abigail Ashe—she was abducted by a scorned opponent of the Lord’s by the name of Low— and she was returned to safety. Afterwards, I dedicated the following months to studying Lord Ashe. With my many underground contacts around London, I obtained a correspondence between him and Lord Ashbourne from May of 1894, just before Lord Ashbourne came to employ my aid on proving his daughter-in-law’s infidelity.”

Holmes pulled an envelope from his coat pocket, and turned it over to James, pacing wildly still. He ripped it from Holmes’ grasp and pulled the paper from within, reading it in haste before throwing it on the floor.

“Bastard!” James shouted, kicking the outer wall of the room with his boot. He leaned his still blood-stained head against the wallpaper, and sighed, unmoving.

Silver picked up the letter and paused for a split second—contemplating whether or not to read it?—before handing it back to Holmes. 

“The official article chronicling Thomas Hamilton’s trial did not state the name of the witness who emerged prior to the incriminating outburst now made infamous. But if the _Mr. A_ they named had enough power to garner such a response from T—from Lord Hamilton, perhaps this was the same man. Who else would have held enough knowledge under oath that Thomas Hamilton may have elected to indict himself, rather than allow him to testify? And who else would have held knowledge of _this particular nature_ , one that put in grave danger that which the young, disgraced Lord held most dear?” Holmes looked at James, who had collapsed back into his seat, his hands shaking. In my friend’s eyes, I could see genuine regret and sympathy. “Thomas Hamilton was a shrewd man, Mr. Flint, and he knew, in precise terms, what that witness was to do the moment he took the stand. I daresay he was rather correct in his assessment. The damage wrought by that testimony, had it been allowed to happen, would have been catastrophic. For us all, but more than anyone else, you.”

I looked at the letter that was still in Holmes’ hands and a feeling of unease settled deep in my gut. Although I had not read it, the meaning of my friend’s words was as clear as day: the witness—this Peter Ashe—had known of the truth regarding James and Thomas’ relationship. The moment Thomas had seen him on the witness stand, he had understood that James was about to be exposed, tried, and likely imprisoned as his lover. The Thomas Hamilton I knew would have never allowed this to happen—even at the cost of his own life. 

“James,” I said in a hush, looking at the broken, haunted man near me. He shook his head, incapable of any speech.

Holmes continued. “After this revelation, I wondered how much of Lord Hamilton’s imprisonment and subsequent report of his death were tied to Lord Ashe. How involved had he truly been in all of this? I have spent much of the last six months studying the underbelly of Peter Ashe’s work, Mr. Flint, and it appears that it stretches up to Glasgow as well.”

James and I both shot our gaze back up to Holmes then. Was this why he had come all this way despite stating he would not do so? Was all of it some detailed misdirection to take Lord Ashe off James’ trail? I could not fathom the depths to which Holmes referred to, and my gut lurched at the thought.

“So, what then? Did you just find all this out months ago and allow us to fall into the trap anyway? Just to prove how clever you are?” James said in a harsh, throaty tone. It was only when I peered up at his face that I noticed the shining wetness beneath his eyes. 

“On the contrary, Mr. Flint. In the months before your arrival in Glasgow, with the help of my informants, I have made my own moves in this horrific game. If you have forgotten, Lord Ashe and Lord Ashbourne wronged me as well, though perhaps not to the degree they condemned you or Thomas Hamilton. They threatened something of immense importance to me, something that I could not forgive being used against me in this way. Upon this realisation, I could do little to quell the rage it bore inside of me. I—” Holmes took pause and shot me a quick glance. “Peter Ashe has been taken care of. He is not a concern you need worry yourself with any longer.”

My eyes widened with horror at Holmes’ words. There were few people in our lives together—or apart—that he had willfully sought out to harm, let alone _take care of_ in the manner I thought him to be suggesting. His expression was grim, with no whisper of humour behind it, as he met James’ pained stare. Was Holmes capable of it? Was he capable of murdering a man so devilish as Peter Ashe? Without a doubt in my mind, he was. He had done much the same to Professor Moriarty, and to Charles Augustus Milverton—though I may have reported differently on that matter. However, it was not something he did with a light hand. To kill another was something Sherlock Holmes did when no other option existed, and in this moment, I was convinced it was true of Lord Ashe.

“Good,” I turned to look at Silver’s face, surprised that this had come from him. There was anger there, anger that I had not expected to see replace his mild, cheery disposition. I realised again that John Silver was a man of depth and complexity that I had not yet begun to understand. “Yet one thing eludes me, Mr. Holmes. How was Lord Ashe aware of the Captain— of Flint’s movements?”

Holmes sighed. “As mentioned, his network of contacts was not to be underestimated. He had been doing the Earl’s dirty work for some time, in exchange for political favours. In Lord Ashbourne’s eyes, Mr. Flint and Lady Hamilton were nothing but loose threads that needed cutting.”

“Miranda,” James breathed, shocked.

“Quite so. I understand one of Lord Ashe’s friends had been your landlord-in-absentia in America. At the time, you had no reason to be suspicious of this—for all you knew, Peter Ashe was still a friend to the Hamiltons, who was simply looking to help you in a terrible situation. Yet, this was his way of keeping an eye on you, making sure you would not act in a way that would endanger his position. When he heard word that you were en route to Glasgow, he assumed that you had found out the truth of his dealings and he made arrangements for intelligence on your movements, and attempts on your lives.”

This seemed to take James out of his stupor. “Miranda!” His breathing was coming in short, panicked bursts. “Where is she? Is she—” 

“I can assure you the lady is unharmed, Mr. Flint. I managed to deal with the men sent after both of you soon upon my arrival in Glasgow late on Tuesday evening. I have been aware of your and Lady Hamilton’s movements, Mr. Flint, and I have done all in my power to keep you all safe, even more so after the Watsons joined you. You may have seen me yesterday morning in the dining room downstairs, though I was quite adorned in the dress of a fellow much older than myself.” 

His mention of this sent me back to the events of the previous morning, which felt infinitely further back in my memory than was sensical. The old man who sat alone, nursing a drink from the night before, looking disheveled and unkempt, was none other than my dear friend. It reminded me of a similar encounter I had with the man more than half a decade prior, when I thought him dead. He had dressed himself as an elderly bookstore owner, only to reveal his true identity to me within the privacy of my practise. The similarity did not go unnoticed in me, nor did the fact that much of our reunion on this night felt as though our friendship was coming back to life yet again. This time, with much more immediate danger.

“Unfortunately,” Holmes continued through my stupor, “I could not have known that they were planning to kill you and using Lord Ashbourne as bait.”

“This is certainly a lot of information a high-society London detective has, Mr. Holmes,” Silver sized Holmes up. “How was it that you got word of all these dark dealings?”

“My contacts in London are no longer just the street urchins and occasional patrons of the Diogenes Club, Mr. Silver. Working against high society blackmailers requires a delicacy found solely in the more clever criminal classes.” Holmes turned to me, then, for the first time since he began to speak. “Watson, I know I have removed you from much of my work as of late. I hope you understand that it was done out of an effort to protect you from unsavoury eyes, rather than out of disinterest in your assistance.”

His reassurance was brief, but a warm flush washed over me all the same. All these years, I had assumed the worst. That I had made myself too unsavoury of company myself, and that Holmes could not stand to tolerate it any longer. Despite the stress of the evening, a relaxing feeling came upon me that I had not felt in what I may have labelled an eternity. It did not answer all my questions, but it was enough.

“This leaves one question unanswered, Mr. Holmes,” James started, finding some of his wits again. “How does any of this prove Silver’s innocence?”

“You arranged your plan in this tavern, did you not? In the staff room, and in this suite?”

“Yes.”

“Have you considered that the confidant you have found in the owner of this establishment may have ulterior motives?”

“Eleanor Guthrie?” The fire in James’ eyes returned then, and a hush came over his voice. Silver looked similarly shocked at this revelation.

“Her father, Lord Richard Guthrie, is the owner of the property, is he not? Remember how I referenced just how wide Peter Ashe’s grasp on British society was?”

“Fucking hell,” James muttered. “Is she involved in it, then? She was the one who betrayed us.”

“It would fit the mold I have uncovered here, yes. Whilst her father has been known to speak of his daughter with some contempt in the past, they appear to have found a recent middle ground of convenience. A middle ground that just so happened to involve her taking over this tavern, according to his most recent letter to Lord Ashe.” 

“Good Lord,” I whispered to myself. They were the first words I had spoken in what felt like ages, but the weight of Holmes’ explanation burdened me too much to maintain silence.

“It is my belief that, whatever sabotage occurred during your mission this evening was brought on by intelligence that Eleanor Guthrie provided. For, who else could have obtained the information to do so, save the men in this room?” 

James ran his hands over his face for what must have been the hundredth time that night. Agony lined his every feature, just as much as exhaustion and rage did, and I thought back to the request Miranda made of me that afternoon. Could she find it in herself to forgive me for what I so failed to do?

“I have a question, Holmes,” I said after a moment. I had realised that there was still a piece of information missing from this unfortunate tale. 

“What is that, my dear Watson?” 

“What are we to do now?”

Holmes looked at me and an unexpected smile appeared on his face, a smile that lit a fire in my blood the way only he could. “Now,” Sherlock Holmes said, “We are going to free Thomas Hamilton.”


	30. XVI

Before Holmes could begin to explain how such a drastic effort could be accomplished—freeing Thomas would be no easy feat, I was certain, and there was of course the matter of finding him before all else—there was a loud _crash_ from the floor below. James shot up from his seat with a start, a fire still roaring within him despite his fatigue and injuries. I was not quite sure what it was that kept him from passing over from sheer exhaustion.

“What the hell?” Silver spoke up first, rising slower than James, but with the same urgency. Holmes peered toward the door, and did not wait long before rushing out to explore the source of the noise. The four of us barreled down the stairs as more shouts and cries became audible to us.

“Get the _fuck_ off me, damn you!” Jack Rackham’s now familiar, higher pitched voice shouted across the dining hall. “You are positively _ruining_ my coat.”

As we reached the landing, I could see in plain view the predicament before us. Vane and Rackham had been bound against two of the posts in the tavern, faces bloodied and bruised from multiple sprawling blows that must have gone unseen by our party. The source of said blows could most likely be attributed to the two rather large men beside them, prodding the ends of their pistols against their temples. Miss Guthrie, proud as ever, stood back near the bar and watched with a keen eye as we understood the truth of the matter at hand. She nodded towards someone and I felt a pressure at my back, heard Holmes’ hitched breath. 

“Do not move, Watson.”

“Gentlemen,” Eleanor Guthrie said, her sharp, discerning eyes fixed on us. “If you would please surrender your weapons, this would be much easier on all of us.”

“Eleanor,” Silver started with the now familiar, placating tone. “You don’t have to—”

A crack, a grunt of pain. I could not see it, as Silver was standing behind me and I dared not turn, lest I provoke the man with the gun pressed to my back. An angry grunt came from what I assumed was James’ direction. 

“Gentlemen,” Holmes said from my side. “I suggest we follow the young lady’s instructions. It is clear she has the upper hand in this situation.” 

“I am so glad that we are seeing eye to eye, Mr. Holmes,” Eleanor jeered at us with a slick grimace. It was so unlike the expression I saw about her just hours before, I wondered if this woman was even the same one that served me an Earl Grey that very morning.

“Miss Guthrie, I assume you have discovered the nature of my presence here, then?” Holmes asked as an impassioned, sly look overtook his features as we were all surrendering our weapons. It had been far too long since I had seen such a look upon my friend’s face, and I relished in it for a brief moment before the tense exchange continued. Once the last revolver was handed over, the pressure in my back disappeared and I was able to once again look at my companions. We were all three of us held at gunpoint still, by four men who had materialised behind us. Vane and Rackham looked between our group and Eleanor Guthrie as if they were the spectators of a tennis match. 

“Oh, do shut up Mr. Holmes. You are the least of my concerns at the moment.”

I looked to James, and the fire behind his eyes transformed into that of an inferno. The rage bubbling up within him was not dissimilar from the very flames we escaped mere hours prior, and I cowered in his light. 

“Eleanor…” Silver tried again, as though speaking in place of James. “Can we not discuss this with some layer of civility, rather than this unnecessary violence?” 

In that moment, I heard a rustling from the secluded staircase, and two shrouded figures in the darkness. I could not catch their faces, but I could spot the hems of two nightgowns—Mary and Miranda. They must have been woken up from the noise. Miranda was too bright to put herself or Mary in the line of potential danger, however, so they stood in the shadow, listening. I was uncertain if they could see me from where I stood, but I gave a brief, inconspicuous nod of affirmation to the both of them. 

“What civility do I owe to you, Mr. Silver? All you have done is bring repulsive men through my door, and defend the bloodthirsty animal you call _Captain,”_ she walked closer to us then, piercing eyes trained on Silver, then on James. She did not acknowledge me or Holmes, yet I feared one stray movement could be the end of us both. 

“When we met, you told me of how deeply you disdained your father’s work, and how keen you were to dismantle his hold on you,” James said, as though just now beginning to quell the urge to scream. “Would you care to enlighten me as to what changed?”

“I don’t see what business that is of yours after what you did tonight.”

“And how, in exact terms, are you aware of Mr. Flint’s actions tonight, Miss Guthrie?” Holmes asked with his typical—arguably pompous—tone. Eleanor shot a glare his way, and turned to face him.

“You know, Mr. Holmes, I do not think your presence was welcomed into my tavern. I could have half a mind to shoot you right this moment. Tell me, why shouldn’t I?” The threat behind her words was not hollow and it shook me deep to my core. I now felt anger bloom in my own breast, too—I would not, under any circumstances, lose Holmes just as we had begun to mend things between us. Despite what one may presume of Miss Guthrie, the command she held was unparalleled. 

“Well, in short, because I believe that we have something you need, and you have something we need.” 

“Is that so? How do you figure that?”

“If you could lower the daggers in your gaze for a moment, perhaps you could allow me to explain. I think I know why you chose to change your allegiances, but I need your confirmation to prove me correct.” 

“Why would I allow you the time of day when I have the upper hand? I could kill every single one of you where you stand. You are on my territory, and my word is what goes.”

“This is ridiculous,” Vane snapped, the ferocity of which I was impressed by, considering the position he was in. “Why don’t you just say what this is about? Why don’t you just shoot me because I dared take your _dear daddy’s_ money?” Vane looks at the man who has a gun trained on him and the intensity of that gaze makes the man take a step back. “Why don’t you get on with it, motherfucker?”

Vane found himself, then, under _two_ poisonous glares—one from Rackham and one from Eleanor.

“Charles, if you don’t shut your fucking mouth, I swear I will do it for you,” Eleanor threatened.

A quick, pointed smile wisped across Holmes’ lips just then, as if he knew the precise moves in this game of chess to play next. Despite the imminent danger of it all, a warmth radiated through my chest to see him this way; in the line of fire, and yet unwavering in his will to push on. 

“Exactly how much debt is your husband in, Miss Guthrie? Or should I say, Mrs. Rogers?” 

In an instant, the heat drained from the young woman’s face. It was as if I could see her blood run cold, and the discriminating spotlight now lay on her, rather than any other soul in the room. James inhaled sharply in surprise, while Vane looked from Holmes to Eleanor, his eyes wild. Once again, he strained against the ropes holding him, seemingly thinking he could rip the post straight out the floor. 

“Rogers?” Rackham voiced all our confusion.

“The lady that you know as Eleanor Guthrie, gentlemen, married one Mr. Woodes Rogers by way of a secret ceremony two months ago.” Holmes’ gaze remained fixed on Eleanor, eyes narrow in a predatory stare. “I understand the relationship commenced while the honourable gentleman was still wedded to another woman.”

“Shut up.” Miss Guthrie—Mrs. Rogers—looked as if she was about to explode. 

“By your shift in posture at my words, I take it that a promise of Mr. Rogers’ debts paid may change your next action. Am I correct?” 

“Debt? Is that all this is?” Silver spoke again, forcing my gaze back to him and James. James’ hand was on his belt, flicking at the buckle in a mindless action, as if he was reaching for a sword that was no longer to be found there.

“Why would you help me?” was all she asked, her eyes still fixed on Holmes. 

“It is a simple enough negotiation, is it not? Mr. Flint needs those men, and the rest of us here, alive. You want us out of your way so that your husband’s debts can be paid by the estate of Lord Ashe. Not only will said estate not be able to relay to you the funds you seek—as some recent tragedies within the family have significantly decreased their fortune—but we have more available to us than you were ever offered. So, if you let those men go, and allow us to give you the information required to obtain the aid you seek, perhaps we may diminish the bloodshed on this night, as there has already been enough.”

I had no idea what funds Holmes spoke of in that moment, nor how he managed to uncover the location of them. I doubted that anyone in that room knew, save himself. And yet, every eye in the place was on him, hanging onto his every word. 

“I have a cache,” James began, as though catching on to Holmes’ plan without a word. “Off the coast of Florida, near the Bahama Islands. It is mostly gold, however there are some gems and pearls in it too. I bought them with the money I stole while disrupting the cotton trade to Alfred Hamilton’s industrial endeavours. I left it there before I left Florida as a means of security. As you know, I did not have much in financial means upon my relocation to Savannah and I did not wish to find myself in the same situation ever again. I suppose there is no better time than now to utilise it. I will give you the precise coordinates of the cache, so long as you free those men, and give me some information.”

“What information is that?” Eleanor asked, turning to look at him now. Whilst I had no clear idea of the nature of their relationship prior to today, the betrayal appeared to cut deep into James’ heart. He appeared willing to do anything in his power to end this with as little disaster possible and he did not wish to do harm to Mrs. Rogers, despite the fact that she still had a gun turned on him. 

Holmes spoke again. “A lead for a potential prisoner transport, planned to occur within the fortnight, from England to the continent. This transport was orchestrated by Lord Ashbourne and Lord Ashe, and I imagine you may know where we can obtain more details about it.” 

“Prisoner transport?” Eleanor looks taken aback, not taking her eyes off James. “What on earth do you need with a prisoner transport?”

Wishing to spare James the pain, I spoke up instead. “A friend most dear to us was imprisoned, some years ago,” I swallowed dryly around the anxiety in my chest. “All we want is to find where he is and—” And what? What were we planning to do? Rescue him? As much as I wished to, I still felt it to be a fool’s errand, in a way. “And ensure that he is all right.”

James was quiet and tense at my side and I felt intensely uncomfortable with the full attention of everyone in the room focused on me. Mrs. Rogers seemed to consider something before meeting James’ eyes again. 

“The coordinates of the cache.”

“Not before we have the information we need.” 

“You’re not in a position to make demands, Mr. Flint.” 

“Surely you are aware of how negotiation works, _Mrs. Rogers._ ” James was unwilling to yield, his voice determined and firm. He spoke Eleanor’s surname as if it made his teeth ache. 

For a moment, she considered us all carefully, with calculations I could not begin to comprehend taking place behind her cold eyes. Then: “I have been made aware that patients from a... private institution, financed by the Earl of Ashbourne, will be transported to Germany in a week’s time, to be relocated to the sanatorium of a doctor by the name of Oglethorpe. It is something to do with treatment and reform for men beset by madness, I believe. There are several routes, all kept in secret. I will tell you the correct route, once you hand over the coordinates.” 

The words _private institution_ and _German sanatorium_ made something go weak in my knees. For I had heard of places like these, and I had heard of the monstrous treatments that they subjected their patients to—electrical and malariotherapy in the milder cases and invasive, illegal brain surgeries in the most severe. _Oh Thomas_ , I thought desperately, in fear that if our friend had spent time in a place like this, he may already be well beyond saving. 

I was not the only one with this knowledge; James seemed to be nearly aflame with the power of his rage beside me. 

“Sanatorium?” He growled. “What the _fuck—_ ”

I heard a pistol cock from Holmes’ direction. “The coordinates, Mr. Flint,” Eleanor said.

“Bristol,” came John Silver’s voice, speaking over whatever other profanity was about to leave James’ mouth. “We left the information in Bristol, with one of our men. It was too dangerous to have in our possession.” A look passed between Silver and James, one that only lasted a second, yet did not go unnoticed by me. I felt some relief. These men had a plan. “You need to go to the Admiral Benbow Inn, in Bristol. There, you will meet a man by the name of Manderly, William Manderly. Billy Bones, he is also known as. He has the coordinates, in a sealed envelope that myself and the Captain entrusted him with before we came here.”

“Manderly?” Eleanor raised an eyebrow. She looked at Rackham and Vane.

“He speaks true,” Rackham hastened to add. “We know Billy Bones. He is one of their men. Big fellow, tall as an oak tree. Can’t miss him.”

“And how will this Mr. Manderly know that I am to be trusted with the coordinates?”

A smile came over John Silver’s face and once again, I saw in his face an endlessly terrifying man. Long gone was the charitable cook who had greeted us with his fake Scottish accent the previous morning; this was a man, I realised, whose wit and power was unparalleled by anyone in this room. 

“Tell him Long John Silver sent you. He will know.” 

For a moment, the silence in the room was damp and heavy, and I felt it choking my lungs. We waited, and waited, and then, without another word, Eleanor Rogers turned on her heel and went to the door of The Hangman’s Rest.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Silver.” She cast a long look over us. “I appreciate your assistance in this matter. However, you realise that I cannot in good faith release men who willingly sabotaged my allies’ industrial efforts.” Her eyes meet James’. “I cannot, in good faith, let the man who killed the Earl of Ashbourne walk free.” 

“Now, Mrs. Rogers, we had a deal—”

Without another look at us, Eleanor opened the door and shot a glance over her shoulder before she walked out: “Kill them all.”


	31. XVII

“Silver, now!” James shouted behind me. 

A scuffle of unforeseen proportions ensued. Silver had somehow, while no one was looking at him, managed to grab a heavy pint glass from a nearby table, which he smashed into the head of Holmes’ attacker, directly in front of him. He then expertly used his iron peg to hook himself behind his own attacker’s leg and bring him to the ground. James turned around with what felt like inhuman speed and bent his attacker’s arm, forcing his gun to fire a useless shot into the ceiling. I got the message rather quickly and jabbed my elbow, with all my force, into the gut of the man I could feel was behind me. A sickening click came from his revolver and I closed my eyes, yet no gunshot sounded in the room—it had misfired.

The two men who held Rackham and Vane at gunpoint turned around in alarm and both aimed at John Silver, who was now holding Holmes’ attacker’s gun in his hand. 

Breathless, Holmes went to tackle the man behind him and put him in an efficient headlock. James dodged a punch from his opponent. “Shoot the left one!” he yelled at Silver. 

“The right one’s closer!” Silver yelled back. 

“The right one has no clear sight of you. The left one is a better shot,” Holmes explained, breathing heavily behind me as I turned to help him and landed a kick into his opponent’s side. 

James threw his opponent off to the side but the man still grabbed his shirt and they both tumbled to the floor. “The left one has more scars, he will be more proficient in hand-to-hand combat.”

“So I’ll actually have to fight them?!”

“Well what the _fuck_ did you think was going to happen?” James exploded, which was impressive, considering a man twice his height had an arm around his neck. 

Before Silver could actually shoot any of them at all, a terrifying gurgling sound came from the men’s direction. I looked up and saw that both men who had been standing next to Vane and Rackham now had two deep gashes in their necks that were spurting blood wildly. I gasped at the sight, for the men in question were still tied to the posts and had not moved from their position. Rackham’s voice then reached me, overflowing with what I could only describe as sheer adoration. 

“Hello, my darling. Fancy seeing you here.” 

It took me a while to see who it was that he was addressing, for the figure with the two blood-covered cutlasses in hand had now moved, quick as a shadow, to jam one in the head of Silver’s attacker. It was a woman, fire-haired and whip-thin, who moved with fluid, certain movements, as if she had been born with a weapon in her hand.

“Flint!” she exclaimed and threw him one of her weapons. James caught it with ease and, without a second’s hesitation, stabbed his opponent right in the belly. 

Holmes smashed the head of the man he had been fighting into the floor and the man did not move again, though I could see the rise and fall of his chest. 

For a moment, we all stood at an impasse. This new, battle-hardened woman, fixed myself and Holmes with her withering glare, half-hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat. 

“Fucking took you long enough,” Vane growled. Another woman who I had not noticed had come from the shadow, in a gown entirely too beautiful to be in a place like this. She was working on Vane’s restraints. 

“Perhaps if you had waited at the rendezvous like you had been told to do, this would not have happened,” she snapped back at him in a lilting French accent. 

Whatever Rackham’s response would have been, it was interrupted by the door of the inn flying open with a loud noise. Through it, walked three men, as large as houses, who were clearly battle-hardened and well armed. After them followed a woman, one whose face and step were, without a shadow of a doubt, those of royalty of some bygone age. She was not tall in stature, however her presence loomed large and filled the room. I was surprised by this, given her dark complexion and the way she appeared, I would not have assumed her to be in a position of such power. And yet, any metaphorical crown upon her head seemed to fit with perfection. 

Holmes and I stared at her, however something brightened up on Silver’s face when he saw her. He struggled to his feet as quickly as he could, hindered by his peg leg.

“Long John Silver,” the regal-looking woman said, looking at him. “Do not tell me I had to once again cross an ocean to save you from the trouble you have caused.”

Blind to anyone else in the room, Silver hobbled over to the woman, grabbed her face in both of his and kissed her, wild and unashamed, his entire body unfurling with relief I had not seen in the man before. 

Bewildered, I observed, until I noticed James’ hand next to me. I grabbed it to stand up.

“Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes.” On James’ face I could now see, for the first time since our reunion, something akin to happiness. “May I introduce you to my dear friend, Miss Madi Scott.”

* * *

The authority that Madi Scott held over her men was truly astounding. It was as if she did not need to speak at all to communicate her orders to them—all she did was nod in their direction and they set about to help the other woman free Vane and Rackham from their restraints and to clear up the bodies of our attackers without arousing suspicion to the neighbours of the inn. Mary and Miranda, having seen the danger had passed, finally emerged from their hiding space. Miranda instantly made a beeline for James.

“You stupid, ridiculous, impossible man,” she nearly cried, holding him in a tight embrace. “You could have gotten yourself _killed_.” 

“Wouldn’t be for the first time,” James groaned, at the absolute very end of his energy. He was leaning on Miranda perhaps a bit more than he would have liked to admit but his eyes would not leave those of Miss Scott, shining with affection that he was unable to hide.

Holmes was likewise intrigued by the newcomers. “Madi Scott? May you be the daughter of the infamous activist? A man only known as Mr. Scott who has been fighting the rather barbaric Jim Crow laws in the American South?” It was unsurprising that he would know of such work given what he has employed himself with in recent years, yet it still took me aback a bit how he pulled knowledge from his mind even after the heat of battle.

At his words, the three men who were hovering around froze and turned to look at my friend as one. Their hands went to the impressive guns hanging off their belts. Silver also seemed shocked, however Miss Scott raised a hand at her men in a definitive gesture.

“My identity is a well kept secret when I travel on work matters in Britain and the continent, Mr. Holmes. I would much prefer it to remain so,” she said evenly. “In our company, I am happy to be merely known as Madi.” She walked to James’ other side, where he enveloped her in a one-armed hug. “It is good to see you too, Captain. Now may we please all take a seat before you have fallen over yourself. I have many things I need to tell you.” 

We moved into the dining area where we had taken our breakfast just the previous morning. It was nearly incomprehensible to me how much everything had changed since then, how we now found ourselves in this company of James’ friends, who seemed to be an odd mix of ruffians and yet to whom we now owed our lives. With a scraping noise, Charles unceremoniously pushed two tables together.

“Eleanor hated it when I used to do that,” he said with a vicious kind of joy that I did not fully comprehend. The histories between all these people were much more complicated than I realised, yet there was little time to unravel them. 

Mary squeezed my forearm gently. “I will go fetch some tea for you all, dear. I am sure I will be able to muster some food for our guests from the kitchen, too.”

“Some alcohol also would not go amiss, my dear,” Miranda said, ripping James’ sleeve to expose a deep, bleeding gash on his shoulder that I recognised as a shrapnel wound from the explosion debris. “And a clean cloth, if you can find one.”

“Miranda,” James growled between his clenched teeth, but she gave him a look and whatever refutation he was beginning to make was squashed. Mary reappeared in an instant with a bottle of clear liquid, a fresh cloth and even some clean bandages she had managed to find from somewhere. She then disappeared once again in the direction of the kitchen. 

We seated ourselves along the table and Holmes ran his eyes across the newcomers. “Some introductions would not go amiss, ladies and gentlemen, for I am sure you are all aware of who I am, yet I am still missing the names of some of the people around this table. It would be good for us all to begin discussions on an equal footing.” 

The corner of Madi’s mouth twisted in a smile. “Very well.” She gestured to the beautifully dressed woman, who sat next to her. Now that I could see her in a proper light, I felt as if every secret I kept deep inside my chest was exposed under her shrewd, dark gaze. It made shivers run up my spine, but I did not know why. “May I introduce you to Max,” Madi said with a smile. “My partner in all things and the reason why you, Captain, are not currently burning to a crisp in the _Maria Aleyne Holiday Home._ ”

“Much appreciated, Max,” James nodded and hissed as Miranda touched the alcohol-soaked cloth to his wound. 

“Have you a given name, Miss Max?” I asked before I could stop myself. My words made Silver smile, for some reason. 

“My name is Max for all intents and purposes you may have, Doctor John Hamish Watson,” Max enunciated sweetly, fixing me once again with her gaze. The fact that she knew—and used—my full name was not lost on me for the threat that it was. “I would take less interest in our identities if I were you.” 

“It is all right, dear,” Madi said quietly. The way she squeezed the other woman’s hand did not elude me. 

Max gestured towards Rackham and Vane, who were now sharing the bottle of alcohol Mary had brought for James’ wounds. “The two ruffians who formed your… rescue party of arguable success are Charles Vane and Jack Rackham.”

“They are _alive_ , Max,” Jack Rackham half-heartedly complained, his head lolling against the back of his chair with exhaustion. 

“And Jack’s beautiful shadow is Anne Bonny.” Max nodded to the thin ginger woman, who had single-handedly killed four men her size, and was now petting Jack Rackham’s head as if he was some kind of overgrown feline. Despite this, Anne Bonny was just as menacing and dark as she had been; she gave us a nod and said nothing.

For a moment, silence settled over us, during which Holmes examined each of our new companions with his inquisitive gaze. He and Madi locked eyes across the table and some minute battle of wits occurred between them, something incomprehensible to the both of us. Madi raised an eyebrow; Holmes gave a wry smile in return.

“Madi,” James said, with what sounded like incredible effort. “What are you doing here?”

“We found your note,” Madi’s eyes moved to him. “You didn’t _actually_ believe I was going to let you take on this dangerous endeavour all alone, did you? Not in Glasgow of all places, our second base of operations? We have eyes everywhere, Captain, lest you forget. Eyes that you have used for information, too.” 

“Hello,” Silver waved. “I am, indeed, the eyes.” 

“John has been expertly keeping us updated on your plans and movements. When Max got word of the plans to kill you at the _Maria Aleyne_ , we dispatched Jack and Charles there straight away. I am glad we were not too late.”

“If it were up to me, Flint,” Max added loftily. “I would have let your stupid ass blow to bits.” 

“Thanks, Max, I know.” There was, surprisingly, no bite in James’ reply. “And yet you came all this way just to not let my stupid ass blow to bits. I’m flattered.”

“Do not flatter yourself,” Max huffed. “Madi and I have important work in Glasgow that does not concern you. The nature of which—” she raised her voice when James opened his mouth to interrupt. “The nature of which is highly confidential.”

“We are well aware of the purpose of your journey here, Captain Flint,” Madi added, gently. “And we wish to help you, as you have helped us over the years. Please accept this.” 

Miranda squeezed James’ wrist as some complicated emotion battled its way on his face. He sighed, deeply. “Madi, I—” He swallowed. “The cache, Madi. Eleanor Guthrie, she— we were forced to tell her where to find the coordinates of the cache. I am so sorry, I—”

Madi raised a hand once again to interrupt him. “You do not think that John and I would not have a way of protecting the location of the cache? Even in a situation such as this?” 

“I am a man with a very low pain tolerance,” Silver shrugged with a smile that made me doubt every word that left his mouth. “Threaten me and I will say anything to get myself out of danger.”

My eyebrows raised so high that they nearly entered my hairline. Out of all on our table, Holmes seemed to be the only one unsurprised by this revelation.

“You gave Mrs. Rogers a false lead.” 

“Quite so, Mr. Holmes. Billy Bones was the one who called me _Long_ John Silver in the first place. He knows I hate the moniker—and he knows I would only use it as code if I was forced to do so. The money is safe, Captain. Though I have to say, I appreciated your quick thinking in lying to Guthrie that the cache is _your_ safety net. Inspired.”

James leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily. “But then— the transport route—”

“I have the route.” 

“The fuck you do,” Vane growled.

“Of course I do,” Max replied. “Do I need to remind you of all people, Charles Vane, just how far my contacts can reach?”

“Perhaps,” I finally interjected in this heated discussion with some trepidation. “We could leave the logistical discussions of the route and the rescue until the morning.” 

“And why’s that, doctor?” The sneer across her lips was subtle, yet sharp as a dagger.

I nodded towards James, who was close to nodding off where he sat. “It would be a betrayal of my Hippocratic Oath if I did not send this man to get some rest right away. We all have been through quite the ordeal tonight and, speaking for myself and a few of us here, I would be much better equipped to plan a daring rescue mission on a head full of sleep and a belly full of food.” 

Mary stood, squeezing my shoulder in thanks. “I will show you where the rooms are. There should be enough for all of us, however—”

“One of us ought’a keep watch,” Anne Bonny spoke for the first time since she had entered the room. “I’ll stay here.” 

“The Captain can stay with me in the ground floor room,” Silver nodded towards James. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Doctor Watson.” 

Any and all fight that seemed to remain within James was gone with the sheer exhaustion; he simply nodded in agreement. As everyone around the table stood to leave, I heard Madi going up to him and saying in a quiet, gentle voice:

“We will find him, Captain. I promise you, we will find him. No one will be able to stop us.”

James did not reply and she pulled him into a gentle, comforting embrace.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, after we had breakfasted and discussed the complex logistics of the endeavour we were to embark on, I lay, restless, in my bed milling over every detail of what all of us had discussed. Holmes, James, Jack, Charles, Silver, Anne, and myself were to venture out to perform the task at hand, while the others completed their roles elsewhere. Every piece of what Madi Scott and her crew had planned appeared sound, and it was as if every aspect was accounted for. And yet, my mind raced with the one core part of this all:

Once we left the English border and performed this heist, none of us could ever return. 

It did not matter what influence or dark channels Miss Max could manipulate. It did not matter what influence Holmes or his brother yielded. Despite the fact that it had been years since his incarceration, the news of Thomas Hamilton’s resurrection would resurface in the darkest echelons of high society—and Holmes’ involvement in it would not be able to be ignored. Additionally, Lord Ashbourne and Lord Ashe’s deaths in tandem with such an event would tie him to their demise in an instant. If Holmes was not to return to London, then I certainly was not to do so either, for I stubbornly refused to be parted from him again. On top of that, I doubted the decimation of his career or reputation could leave me unscathed. If Holmes was to be forced out of London a second time, he would not leave without me. 

Almost as though reading my thoughts, a soft but decisive knock rattled on my bedroom door in that moment. I was supposed to be packing my things and possibly catching a short nap, but I answered nonetheless. I opened the door to find Holmes on the other side of it.

“Oh, Holmes. Come in, come in.” 

Sherlock Holmes walked into my room in a swift motion, making his way to one of the chairs and sitting down. His breath moved through him quickly, and he did not meet my eyes. 

“What is it?” I asked after a still moment passed. 

“I apologise, Watson. We are meant to be preparing for our departure from this place, and I should allow you the proper time to do so,” Holmes said, standing up again from his chair, indecisive about his movements. He rushed toward the door again, and therefore toward me, and I halted him with a hand on his chest. 

“Holmes, what is the matter? You do not seem like yourself.” At that, a sigh fell from his lips. I had managed, it appeared, to crack his outer shell with an ease I had not found in years. 

“I felt it necessary,” Holmes began, stepping back from me, “to speak with you about some of the details of this plan. One detail in specific, in fact.”

“What detail would that be?” I walked away from the door, and sat at the foot of the bed as he sat upon one of the wooden chairs across from me. 

“Once we leave England, Watson, we cannot return. Perhaps, we never will. If the interception of this transport goes as planned, no matter what the outcome of it is, we are sealing our fate in the eyes of the British Empire.” The shadows of sunrise cast across Holmes’ eyes from the window, and I felt a chill come over me. 

“Yes, I am well aware.”

“I mention this, Watson, because I know of your attachment to this land. You have never lived elsewhere, and your practise in London is rather dear to you. I worry— I have concern that this part of the journey may be one that could be too dangerous, or perhaps too painful, for you to embark on. If that is true, I will hold no fault toward you. It is a large change to commit yourself to for a man you knew so briefly and I—“

“Holmes, forgive the interruption, but what in the Lord’s name are you talking about?” At that, he jolted upright, looking at me square on with a puzzled expression.

“I’m sorry?”

“London is my home. I have lived there for nearly two decades now. Of course, it is no easy task to abandon my life and my profession for an effort that may not work. I was contemplating the reality of it just moments before you knocked on my door. But, if you are so willing to sacrifice your life’s work—your career, your reputation—in replacement for a life of secluded retirement all for an attempt to save one man, then how could I do anything but follow you?”

For a moment, Holmes said nothing. He stared at me, wordless and confused, as though some unprecedented realisation had come over him. Somehow, in seeing Holmes’ own fear about the circumstances laid before us, all previous rumination left my mind. If he was not doubtful of his own motions, but rather of mine, then there was nothing to contemplate. I would follow him to the ends of the earth if it meant getting to work by his side again, and I would not allow a brief hesitation to take that chance from me. 

“I do have a different question for you, now, however,” I spoke again after tiring of the silence. 

“What is it?”

“How is it that you are so certain to abandon your work in London for this? You knew the Hamiltons less than even I did, and you have spent so much of your adult life building your reputation as that of a consulting detective. What is it that motivates you to leave behind all of that for these people who have so often shown disdain and mistrust towards you? Especially considering the fact that we do not know for certain whether we will find Thomas Hamilton alive.”

He thought on my question, flicking his thumb against his lapel. 

“In the years since my return from the social grave Moriarty built for me, I have seen a new side to London’s underbelly. A side that is not tied to the street rats, the prostitutes, or other _unsavoury_ types.” He said _unsavoury_ as though quoting the words of someone outside himself. “The worst parts of London—of England—are not those who exist in the difficult edges and margins that high society wishes to eradicate. The worst parts of this country are found in the meeting rooms at Whitehall. They are found in the parlours of the landed gentry, in the summer estates of Shropshire and Darbyshire. They are the true gutter of our society, Watson, only no one acknowledges it because they tend to dress nicely. I have no interest continuing to work in such a place.” He gave me a small, unexpected smile. “In a rare occasion for a man of his class, Thomas Hamilton saw this. It is why he did the work that he did. I am a fool for not having seen it earlier; and if I do have even the faintest chance to rescue him and to ask his forgiveness for whatever part I may have played in his misfortune, I owe it to him and to all other wretches I have wronged during my career to try.”

I was at a loss for what to say then. The man before me was once again the one I recognised from our years working together and cohabitating. I no longer felt the fog of confusion and minced words between us, and if I had less composure, I am uncertain what I would have done in that moment. I looked at this man, who was finally a reflection of the moral eccentric that I grew so attached to in our younger years. I looked at him and felt no doubt, no fear. Instead, all that occupied my heart then was relief.

“If that is how you feel, Holmes, then I see no issue before us.” He looked up at me again from where his eyes peered at the floorboards, and there was the same glimmer of excitement in his eyes that I saw all those years ago in Bart’s Hospital. Now, it was tinged with exhaustion, his face now more lined, and a risk of imprisonment or death at the end of this plan loomed over us. And yet, as his lips curled into a smile I had missed so deeply, I could not find it within myself to care for fear or rage anymore.

“No issue at all, my dear Watson.”

The term of endearment stood out to me in that sentence more than it had in the past. I was unsure how long it had been since last I heard it, and I longed for a distant time when hearing such words was nothing short of normalcy. I reached to his arm, then, and gave him a reassuring shake. 

“Now, would you like to help me pack my things?”

* * *

In the early afternoon of that same day, I was saying goodbye to one person from our party, the one person I thought I would never have to be parted from for very long.

“I will be all right,” Mary reassured me for what felt like the hundredth time, her hands gently resting on my shoulders.

“Please, be safe,” I insisted, for I could feel the intensity with which my heart was breaking. The fact that my wife and Miranda were the first to enter this new stage in all our lives, this dangerous endeavour to which we had all assigned ourselves to—it sat deep, unpleasant in my chest.

Mary’s eyes glinted in amusement. “My dearest John. Yourself, James, Holmes and Mr. Silver are going to return to London—a place which holds many enemies to both James and Holmes—infiltrate a network of dangerous people who have attempted to kill you, and discover information to then use to track down a train and blow it up. Miranda and I are going to a small French countryside town, with well-established connections already, to locate and settle down into some cottages and perhaps do some interior decorating while we are at it. And you want _me_ to be safe?”

“Yes,” I insisted helplessly. “Mary, you know as well as I do that the endeavour is dangerous in every stage that it is in. I am your husband; it is my job to worry after you.”

“What a ridiculous notion,” Mary laughed and gently patted my cheek. Even as our hearts belonged to others, my love for her was a constant I could not deny. In the weeks before our reunion, I would miss the warmth in her eyes as she looked at me. I would doubly miss how such simple, teasing phrases from her managed to ground me upon the earth like little else. 

“You remember Max’s instructions?”

“Go to Marilès. Meet a man named Featherstone, who Max has already contacted on our behalf. Let him take us to a place outside of town, where we will find long abandoned cottages. Make cottages habitable as much as we can. Immediately send you a letter with directions. I remember, John, I assure you that your fretting is nothing more than an indulgence.”

I squeezed her hands and for a moment we stood there, just letting the cold winter wind bracket us. 

“You are okay with this?” I asked, finally. “I realise that you most likely did not mean to abandon your life in London when you agreed to come to Glasgow with me.”

She gave me a wry smile. “To be honest with you, I thought I may have to. I knew there was no way Miranda could return to London. And I would not be parted from her ever again. So I already said my goodbyes, darling. To me, a home is not a place. I discovered this long ago. My home is where she is.” 

I gave Mary a gentle smile and pulled her into my arms into a comforting embrace. “I am so happy for you, my dear. I am so happy that you have found each other. You deserve no less.”

Mary squeezed my shoulders and pulled back to meet my eyes. “You deserve just as much,” she said, her voice careful and kind. The implication behind her words stung my heart, but I could not let myself ruminate on it, not now of all times. Mary took a deep breath. “Do you think you will find him, John? Thomas, I mean. Do you truly believe he may be alive?”

I sighed heavily and looked out into the street from the small window in Mary’s room. Snow was gently falling outside, dancing around the air in a frozen waltz. Outside the front door of the inn, I could see two figures, sitting down on the curb, their hands tangled in a gesture of unquestionable affection. I thought I recognised Anne Bonny’s fiery hair. 

I closed my eyes. So many lives and loves at risk today, this week, the week after. All because of the small, fragile hope that a man we all thought dead may still be saved. That we may be able to bring life back to James and Miranda, two people who had lost it long ago. 

I looked back at Mary. “If Thomas knew all that was at stake, he would probably kill us all for even thinking of attempting it. I cannot tell you whether we will succeed, my dear. I cannot tell you whether we will all get our happy ending. But what I know—and I am as certain of it as I am of the fact that the sun will rise tomorrow—is that we must at least try. We simply must.”

Mary nodded and leaned her head against my shoulder. We stood there in this moment, savouring its stillness, appreciating it to be the last quiet hour before the storm we were all about to walk into.


	32. XVIII

“When Max pointed out that this was the better of the two routes available,” Silver huffed in my ear, and I was surprised at his sudden proximity. “I did not think that it would involve crouching in  _ puddles of mud _ .”

Despite the discomfort and the damp and the mud sticking to every crevice of my legs, despite the anxiety swirling deep in my gut and the smell of sewage nearby, despite the uncomfortable memories that arose within me, I could not help but smile at the young man’s statement. “Dear Lord, Silver, you would not have lasted a single day in the army.”

“Quite right, doctor! I am a man built for love, not war.”

“You have been known to smash men’s heads in with your false leg,” James’ voice, quietly amused, came from behind Silver.

“Your point, Captain? Besides, that was only  _ once _ and, if I remember correctly, it was done to save  _ your  _ hide.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Vane’s hiss reached us from across the tracks. “It is almost time.”

We quieted down at this and sharpened our hearing, ready for the signal that Anne and Jack were to send to us once the transport had been spotted. This was it. The culmination of days of work, of planning, of preparation. It all came down to this one moment, on this cold evening, crouching next to an abandoned train post in Calais.

My eyes wandered and met Holmes’ on the other side of the tracks. On his face, I saw the same fear that now sat so ugly in my chest. For if we had gotten this one crucial detail wrong, this—the travel, the mud, the cold, the damp, the battle—would all be for nothing.

For, as we had found out from Max, there were two routes.

* * *

“Two routes?” James exploded, nearly overturning his cup of tea into Silver’s lap with his wildly gesticulating hands. “You did not say anything about  _ two  _ routes!”

“The routes of the prisoner transport were kept in the utmost secret,” Max glared at him. “It took cajoling of the kind you would not be able to imagine to even get this far. If you have a better method of organising an international intelligence network of whores and molly boys to gather reconnaissance on the movements' empirical traders, please  _ do  _ enlighten me, Mr. Flint.”

“Arguments will get us nowhere,” Madi interjected with a voice that I now realised made James snap his jaw shut and stubbornly listen. “Two routes is better than twenty routes, or a hundred routes—or no routes, which is how many you were aware of before we arrived.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Just chance Thomas’ life on a coin toss?”

Max’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Thomas?” She looked at Madi, eyebrow raised. “I thought this was about intercepting trade goods from a joint venture by the Earl of Ashbourne and Richard Guthrie. Is there a hostage situation involved in this?” 

James’ face blanched—with the freedom that we had all been discussing the situation with over the last few days, he had forgotten that not all were privy to the true intention of his mission. Madi gently squeezed Max’ arm.

“I am sorry. I have not been entirely truthful with you, simply because it was not my truth to tell,” she said. “I will ask you to not question it for the moment.”

Max’s eyes shifted from Madi, to James and then, oddly enough, to me. Whatever conclusions she drew from this observation, she kept to herself.

“I may be able to help with this predicament, Mr. Flint,” Holmes interjected, puffing on his clay pipe. “I have intelligence of my own that I can contribute to Miss Max’s findings. With our combined knowledge, I am certain that we will be able to identify the correct route with a rather high percentage of certainty.”

James exhaled noisily and leaned back in his seat. His fingers traced the handle of his teacup, betraying his nervousness. I had noticed his habit to run his fingertips over the shape of any object in front of him when his anxiety peaked. “A high percentage of certainty does not sound like ‘with no shadow of a doubt’ to me.” 

“No, it does not,” Holmes admitted. “I will be the first to say so. But, I do not see what choice we have in the matter, and I believe that a small leap of faith is justified, considering the rewards we will reap if we are correct.”

“Richard Guthrie’s men will not surrender easily,” Madi warned. “I know them; I have fought them. It will be dangerous.”

An unexpected smile appeared on James’ face, as if he was transported into a memory far more pleasant than this run-down inn in the middle of Glasgow. He met Madi’s eyes. “Anything that has ever been worth doing has been worth doing in the face of a little danger.”

* * *

We held our breaths in tense anticipation. Even though there was no carriage on the horizon, I could feel a barely perceptible vibration from where my shoulder was pressed against the train tracks but I knew well that this could be from a train many miles away, a train that we did not need to worry about. So I sat, with my back pressed against Silver’s shoulder, motionless, and waited. And waited. And waited. 

Then, from a few miles ahead, we saw a flame, flickering in the darkness. Left, and right, and left, and right.

“It is the signal,” I breathed, my heart thumping so loud I was afraid it may well burst my eardrums. James was already way ahead of me. He jumped on his feet, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, loud and clear, just the way I had heard him whistle under the Hamiltons’ window all those years ago. It sounded in the night, subtle like the call of a swallow. He knelt down in the darkness once again, under the cover of the trench, and took his revolver out. He looked at us and nodded, a peculiar glint shining in his eyes when they met Silver’s.

“Don’t get killed.”

“Wouldn’t dare deprive you of the pleasure, Captain.”

At what seemed to us a sluggish pace, the train climbed the steep hill leading to our hideout. I could only see its body in the distance—a slow, monstrous thing, a beast of steel and coal. It looked so insurmountable, then, so unshakeable in its solidity. Even so far away, I could hear its groan echo in my ears, as if it were a thousand men toiling to pull it. For a moment, I did not believe that we could succeed. That even if our friend  _ was  _ in the belly of this giant beast, we would have no way of reaching past the stampede of its wheels, the jaws of its locomotive, the claws of the men who surely guarded it. For a moment, it seemed as though the devil himself were approaching us on these tracks. 

Then, as the train got closer, the world bathed in orange and an explosion sounded. The locomotive whined, split in two and screeched to a bone-crunching halt.

* * *

I stared at the barrels in front of me, nearly failing to comprehend what it was that I was seeing. 

“Gunpowder?” I asked, my voice choked.

“Gunpowder,” Jack Rackham replied, his voice brimming with pride.

“The way he speaks of it, you’d think he shat that gunpowder out himself,” Vane’s voice sounded from the corner of the room, where he seemed to be inspecting a musket. There was really far less bite in his words than one would have assumed a statement such as this to carry. 

“Please ignore Chaz, good doctor. He is not a cultured man, like you and I.” A smile danced on the corner of Jack’s face, one that I suspected was a permanent fixture for this man. “Now how may I assist you?”

“James— Mr. Flint sent me to check the available arms and ammunition, and decide which ones we are to be taking with us. He mentioned nothing about gunpowder, I am afraid.” 

“Oh, I very much doubt that he would. As much as I can appreciate his, ah, knowledge of tactical maneuvers, Mr. Flint—in a stark contrast to his name—is really rather too  _ refined  _ for something as simple and destructive as gunpowder. No, this was entirely Max’ idea. The woman is knowledgeable of far too many things that I have no wish to know.”

It was the first time I had ever heard anyone describe James as  _ too refined  _ in any context. I levelled Rackham with a curious look. “So that is how we intend to stop the train? Blow it up?”

Rackham hummed thoughtfully and ran a reverent finger down one of the barrels. I noticed that each barrel was equipped with a sophisticated mechanism, a switch that could produce a spark to light the fuse in under a second. I did not dare touch it. 

“I design these barrels myself, doctor. See here? This is my brand. Everyone who finds a barrel such as this will know it to be the work of Calico Jack.” For now that I looked closer I could see a small skull and two swords by its side, engraved on the lip of the barrel. “I find there’s a certain— poetry, should you say, in calculating the exact amount of powder that goes into a keg such as this. For even a grain too much can make destruction go in entirely the wrong direction to the one we desire.” Rackham huffed. “Much like in life, would you not agree?”

“Must you turn everything into this, Jack?” It was Vane again, who had walked closer to us and now hovered behind Rackham—but was still, I noticed, a good distance away from the barrels and eyed them suspiciously. “Sometimes an explosion’s just a fucking explosion. All results in fire and death, doesn’t it?”

Rackham grinned yet kept looking at me. “Ah, see, dear doctor, Chaz is much in the wrong here. For any monkey with opposing thumbs can shove gunpowder in a box, flick two stones and make it go boom. You saw the results of such a bomb in the  _ Maria Aleyne.  _ Awful business. Sloppy, useless.” 

I raise an eyebrow. “It very nearly killed us, Mr. Rackham.”

He did not seem to pay my words any heed, for he was deep into his speech. “But the barrels I make and fill, those only go off in the most skilled of hands. See, only I can calculate the exact amount of powder needed to damage the train yet not destroy it. Only I know the precise place to place it on the tracks so that it does not set off under the hold and damage the cargo.”

“And you wish for this death and destruction to be synonymous with your name, Mr. Rackham?” 

Rackham opened his mouth to speak and then shut it and turned his head to look at Vane. Something passed between the two men; something I did not quite understand. There was a movement of Vane’s hand and I could swear I had seen him move it to rest on the small of Rackham’s back. I attributed it to the fatigue of the day weighing on me.

Rackham seemed to consider his response. “Designing death and destruction is one thing, Doctor Watson. I design revenge; I design ways for men like Mr. Flint to unleash their ire onto the world that has so wronged them. And why would I not wish to take credit for something so powerful?” Rackham gave me a smile that seemed to hide something much deeper within, something much more powerful than the barrels of gunpowder that were so beloved to him. “Once we are all gone from this world, Doctor Watson, it is the art that leaves the mark.”

* * *

Fire and brimstone rained around us as the last of Calico Jack’s powder barrels went off. 

“Holmes!” James shouted from behind us, ducking to avoid a shot that flew disturbingly close to his cheek. “Go from the east side, Holmes!” 

Through the smoke, I could make out my friend’s nod, as we descended on the train from opposite sides. 

Madi had been rather correct in her assessment. The men who were on the train—Guthrie’s men, from what I’d gathered—fought fiercely and were not willing to give any quarter. I took cover behind anything that I could, doing my best to avoid the burning debris or any remains of gunpowder that could go off at my feet. Fortunately, there seemed to be none of the latter. It seemed that Rackham had not overstated his abilities. 

John Silver and James went ahead of me, fighting their way through the mercenaries. Alongside his gun, James had an elegant blade in his hand—a Navy warrant officer sword, if I was not mistaken—that he seemed to favour over his revolver as he slashed through his opponents with ease, his step too quick and nimble for any of them to realise what was happening to them. By his side, John Silver was far less athletic in his fight due to his prosthetic; however, on each hip he carried three guns that he switched between with impressive ease and speed. Without a flinch, he immediately shot a man who had been advancing on James from the back right between the eyes. Silver was, I realised, a marksman of immense talent. 

Once I found an opening, I emerged from my cover and joined in the fight, easily neutralising an opponent that was coming at me with a shot to the chest, and another behind James with a shot to the leg. “James!” I shouted. “We should advance!” 

James nodded just as he killed his final opponent and threw his body to the ground. We climbed inside the train carriage and with a brief look emerged on the other side, where we ran headfirst into Vane and Holmes. 

“This one is empty!” shouted Silver.

“The one behind it is, too!” 

“We go forward, then!” 

We moved forward, only to come to Rackham and Anne, in a bloody scuffle with a group of mercenaries of their own. Immediately, we went to assist them, as Vane charged at a man who was choking Anne and shoved it off her with the entire weight of his body. 

“A little help, doctor?” I turned to see Rackham, breathless, his teeth clenched in pain. His leg, I realised, was stuck under a particularly heavy metal piece. 

I jogged over to him. “I have to say, my good man, you did not lie as to the extent of your skill.” I strained to lift the debris off Rackham’s leg. “That was a rather good explosion, if I may say so myself.”

“Why, I am rather glad to— look out, Doctor Watson!” 

Rackham shoved me to the side with considerable strength as he jumped away himself, now freed from his trap. I had not realised what had happened until the pain reached my senses—one of the mercenaries had been pointing a gun right at us and even though Rackham’s actions served to save me from certain death, a bullet had still managed to find his way to my leg.

I swore under my breath and pressed my hand to the wound, breathing heavy. I looked up, expecting for the mercenary to run me through with a sword or a knife. Instead, what I saw was Sherlock Holmes, approaching behind him, with an expression on his face I will never forget for as long as I live. It was not something I could describe with simple words like terror or concern, or even fear. It was a boiling, passionate,  _ protective  _ rage. 

With a crash of his pistol hitting the man’s head, my foe fell to the floor. Holmes’ eyes met mine, and the fury behind them transformed into something far more delicate than I ever thought possible. 

He rushed to me then, moving me with a gentle hand to the floor of the carriage before ripping my trouser leg at the thigh with his knife. 

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake man, say that you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to see the depth of emotion in him then. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. It was as if I finally caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great brain, and some of my years of agony awaiting his company were erased. 

“It is nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch,” I huffed, though my breath was not lost due to the pain in my thigh, or the hardened nature of battle. As our eyes bored into each other, I saw something shift within him. Perhaps, behind my own expression, he was now reading some of the love I held deep within myself.

“You are right,” he chuckled half-heartedly, sighing with relief. “It is… quite superficial.” Despite the graze it was, Holmes reached toward my pack to fetch a small length of gauze to wrap around my thigh. I could not remember at that moment if this was something to have happened before—Holmes caring for my wounds, rather than the other way around. He applied pressure with the scrap of bloodied fabric from my trousers before wrapping it, and looked back up at me once again. For a brief second, I thought I saw a dampness lining his eyes. Before I could question it, he gave my wounded leg a light, reassuring tap as he moved to stand again, looking toward the mercenary upon the floor.

“By the Lord, it is well for you,” he said to the man, just now waking from his head trauma. “If you had killed Watson, I would have slaughtered you where you stood.”

The half-conscious man murmured something offensive under his breath before Holmes continued.

“Although, given the nature of things here, I think I may kill you after all.”

And with that, Holmes pulled his pistol on the man and shot two clear shots into his head and chest. Years ago, I would not have labeled him a marksman, but this appeared to be one feature of him that I had to reacquaint myself with. He turned to me then, offering a hand to let me up. 

“Come, now, Watson. We have a man to rescue.”

As we walked toward the remainder of our party, I leaned on his shoulder to help my limp. I looked up at his face, and saw something not entirely unlike what I had seen in James’ shadowed expression at the  _ Maria Aleyne Holiday Home.  _ The difference, though, was that instead of rage, all I could read in Holmes’ eyes was righteousness. 

Suddenly, this fragile moment between us was interrupted by a terrifying noise, a feral, pained howl that echoed through the sound of the fire and the flying debris. Awash with terror, I recognised James’ voice and my mind went to the darkest possible place, to the outcome that we had so desperately been trying to prevent. For that minute, I felt as if all was truly lost. 

Holmes and I both snapped our heads up to see Anne Bonny, breathing heavily and swearing under her breath as she jumped into the carriage that Holmes and I were crouched in. 

“What has happened?” Holmes demanded.

“Ain’t no fucking cargo in that hold,” Anne spat furiously, the flames from the burning locomotive dancing in her ferocious eyes. “It’s the wrong fucking transport.”


	33. XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this chapter: intense violence, graphic description of medical malpractice, emetophobia, medical violence
> 
> if you would like to skip the graphic description of medical malpractice, stop reading at the line "... but my words died in my throat as we entered the cargo hold." and start reading again at "Watson!"

Anne’s words sent a jolt of panic through my body, as I leaned onto Holmes to hobble out of the carriage. The air outside was heady with smoke and fire, and I saw Charles Vane’s form jogging up to us.

“We’re fucked,” he growled which seemed to sum up our collective feelings quite well.

“How can this be the wrong transport?” I asked, looking from Vane to Holmes, bewildered. “I thought the reconnaissance—”

“They must have changed their plans last minute,” Holmes huffed, adjusting his grip on me. “Vane, have you the map that Madi provided you with?” 

Vane nodded and took the map out. Without a word, Anne turned around so he could spread it over her back. Just as I was about to join them in exploring it, Rackham’s voice sounded near me.

“Doctor, if I could steal you for a moment?” Blood was running from his brow and his face was covered in soot, giving Rackham a rather devilish look. “You are needed in the cargo hold.”

I met Holmes’ eyes and nodded, in reassurance that I will be okay. Rackham let me lean on him as he led me to what I assumed was the cargo hold. 

“Who is hurt? Is it James?” I enquired, for I could not get the anguished sound out of my head. 

“Ah, no, not— not quite, doctor. Mr. Flint is distressed, certainly, but it is the passengers of this train that I need your help with.”

My heart stopped. “Passengers? Prisoners? So the hold was not empty after all? Oh thank Heavens—”

“Doctor,” Rackham interrupted, his voice wary. “I think it best to— to withhold any explanation until you become aware of the situation yourself.”

I opened my mouth to object, for I was eager to know what the situation was, but my words died in my throat as we entered the cargo hold. 

The first thing that hit me was the _smell_. As an army doctor, I thought I had seen the full extent of human misery, that nothing about how a man’s body could be mistreated could shock me anymore. Oh, how wrong I was. 

Inside the cargo hold were four cages, with a man in each. From what I could see—and smell—they had been there a good while, sitting in their own filth. Even with the smell of ash and fire from outside, nothing could drown this out.

With my legs trembling, I approached the cages, hoping to see the men’s faces. It struck me then that they were all dark-haired. None of them were Thomas. 

It was not relief that I felt, for any positive emotion seemed to not exist in the warm, stale air of the train car. For when one of the men met my eyes, I nearly recoiled and fell back. A large, unseemly scar was running across the top of his head, red and infected, the wound most likely beyond saving. His hair had been shaved, haphazardly, with no care. His mouth was open and drool was leaking out of it onto the floor. The worst, however, I thought, were the eyes—dead, blank, listless, as if made of glass. The man did not seem to see me where I stood, he did not seem to register the burning train carriages around him. He just emitted a low, guttural noise.

I staggered out of the carriage and even if filled with the smell of soot and ash, the air outside felt like a blessing to the putrid smell inside. I emptied my bowels off to the side.

“Watson!” Holmes was at my side yet again, worry in his eyes. “Watson, what—”

Yet, I had a much more important task ahead of me, for I could see James, wild around the eyes, staggering towards the carriage I had just left.

I pushed past Holmes and moved to block his path easily. “James, no.”

“Let me go.” He did not seem to be able to fight, but was going to nonetheless. I knew that he was; he was not a man to back down, even if he was halfway dead.

“James, he is not inside, and you do not need to see—”

“Watson, I swear to fucking God—”

“Captain!” Silver’s collected tone sounded from behind James. His lip was split and the limp in his bad leg was far more pronounced than normal. He reached to grab James’ shoulder. “Flint, don’t—”

But his words died in his throat as James recoiled in on himself at the touch and nearly fell to his knees. Silver’s arm immediately went around his waist to keep him upright and I cursed myself then, for only then did I see the way James held his shoulder, the way he stood and realised that blood would not be visible on his dark clothes.

“James, you are hurt. You need to be seen to.”

James still struggled against Silver’s grip. “No, I won’t fucking—”

Steadfastly ignoring James, Silver met my eyes. “Doctor, you need to get him out of there. You need to get him on a horse, get him to Marilès, and make sure he doesn’t fucking die on the way.”

“Mr. Silver is quite correct, Watson,” Holmes’ voice sounded behind me. “For you are also hurt and in need of tending to. Yourself and the Lieutenant are quite done for the night.”

Despite the fact that he was barely standing, James threw us a poisonous look. “I am not _fucking_ going anywhere, if you think that I am going to just— just leave when—”

“Captain. Flint. Listen to me.” Silver grabbed James by the shirt and forced their eyes to meet. “I _give you my word_ that I will not let your Lord Hamilton be taken by these bastards. Yes, we got the route wrong, but there is still hope. They all leave from the ferry port. The second route intersects a station not too far from here. If you and Watson do not slow us down with your wounds, we will be able to get there much more quickly and Rackham still has a barrel of gunpowder left, yes?” The logical, clear way in which Silver was putting things seemed to put James at some ease. “ _James_. I promise you, I will sit at that fucking station, and if that train does not arrive, I will keep looking. I will leave no stone unturned. I will stay at as many stations as I need to and wait a day, a month, a year, forever, as long as it takes. I made you a promise, when we set off from Georgia. I am not backing down on it.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, James’ hands wrung in Silver’s coat so he could stay upright, their faces so close there was hardly a breath of air between them. The intensity in their shared gaze was so powerful it took my breath out of my lungs. With their faces bathed in firelight, with the blood on their hands that was not their own, with the soot on their faces, I could see it clearly—John Silver and James Flint, two men who were ready to bring the world to heel, two men to whom nothing was impossible if they were of the same mind.

Then, it passed. James nodded, his face blanched, and he leaned heavier on Silver’s good side. 

“I need a horse!” Silver shouted. I moved to take James’ weight off Silver and ripped the tainted shoulder from his shirt to uncover the wound. The entry point was rather large, and I tore my own ruined sleeve to attempt to stop the blood seeping from what must have been a bullet wound, buried deep in his shoulder. I fetched the miniscule amount of wound care supplies from my bag—a bit of alcohol, some gauze—that could hardly handle the significance of James’ injury, but for the moment it would have to do. I applied pressure to the wound, and the bleeding seemed to slow enough to apply some bandages. I wrapped his shoulder in a haphazard cover, and shrouded him in my coat to keep his remaining warmth. 

“Thank you, doctor,” James muttered, worn and wracked with a pain I could see clearly now. 

Vane emerged from the hold behind us breathing heavy but seemingly unharmed. His eyes were burning with an emotion I could not describe with ease. It was as if he was so immersed in a memory beyond our reckoning that he could not quite see us there. 

“Jack,” he growled. “Give me your gun.”

Rackham’s eyes met mine and I immediately understood why Vane needed the gun.

“No,” I put myself bodily in front of Vane, feeling something aflame in my own chest. The man eyed me down but I stood my ground—it did not matter that he could, quite likely, tackle me without much care. “This is not a decision you can make, and as a doctor I will not stand for it.”

“As a _doctor_ , you must know that this is the only decision I _can_ make.”

“Who appointed you judge, jury and executioner?” I shot back, incensed. “These men—”

Vane’s face got impossibly closer to mine. “Men, Doctor Watson? Did you see the look in their eyes? Did you see these wounds, did you see the way they had lost their faculties? Did you _smell_ their despair and fear?”

“Charles,” I heard a gentle plea from Jack, but it did not deter Vane.

“This is no life. It is not.” He looked around and met James’ eyes, who was watching the exchange quietly, still holding on to Silver to stay upright. “It is slavery of the most insidiuous kind. Men held prisoner in their own bodies. I will not allow it. Not again.” 

James said nothing; I was too shocked to think of anything in response. With one last look at us, Vane took the gun Rackham handed to him and turned around.

He jumped into the hold carriage and, through the noises around us, I clearly heard four gunshots echo through its metal walls. James’ face got impossibly paler and Silver’s hold on him tightened. I squeezed my eyes shut and slowly counted to ten.

As he came out of the cargo hold, Vane threw the gun to the side as if it burned his skin to hold it. In an instant, Rackham was at his side, two hands on his shoulders. His words were too quiet for me to hear, yet I could see Vane leaning into the touch. A vulnerability I did not think him capable of was clear in every distressed line of his face.

A few moments later, Anne appeared with one of the horses.

We put James on it with some effort. He was still conscious, yet it was clear that he was struggling with it. The blood loss had made him drowsy and sluggish, and I feared our ability to get to Marilès safely. 

“Go,” Silver said, when I got onto the horse. “Mary and Miranda will await you there. You remember the instructions?”

“Yes,” I breathed, for we had all memorised the precise directions to the cottages from Miranda’s letter, just in case. “Yes, I do. We will wait for you there, God willing.”

Silver nodded and stepped back. I met Holmes’ eyes, suddenly struck by the thought that this may be the last time I may ever see him. The thought lodged deep in my throat, unpleasant and burning like a piece of coal.

I could not speak past it. I only gave him a curt nod and he replied with the same. Then, I adjusted my grip on James’ faltering form and rode down the road, away from the burning train. I did not look back.

* * *

The rushing night air shook James back into wakefulness as we approached the outskirts of Marilès. As instructed, just after we passed the signage indicating the small town, we turned left off the road. We followed down a smaller dirt path, away from much of the village and up a hill until we reached a small clearing with a collection of modest cottages. I was uncertain which one belonged to Mary and Miranda at first, but I spotted two twin lanterns off in the distance, and then I remembered the final piece to Miranda’s instructions.

“The signal,” James voiced my thoughts from behind me. “Miranda said she would leave two lanterns by the path every night for us. A light to beckon us home.”

“Quite right,” I concurred, and hit the reins against our horse ever so slightly to move toward it. The interior of the cottage was dark, but I leapt off our steed in haste anyway. I helped James down and wrapped my arm around him for balance. I knocked my free hand against the door, praying that it wouldn’t fall on deaf ears. At first, there was no response, but James removed his uninjured arm from its place on my shoulders and knocked a rhythm against the wood that was rather specific. 

Within seconds, the door opened up to reveal Mary and Miranda both in nightgowns, sleep still lining their features.

“Good heavens,” Mary spoke first, ushering the both of us inside. Without a doubt, she could see the accumulation of soot, blood, and weariness across our faces, yet she took me into her arms anyway, holding fast. It was only then I realised how cold I had been in comparison to her steady warmth. Miranda stared at James and I, silent for a moment, as though trying to comprehend what our presence without our party could mean.

“We faced some… injuries, and there were a few complications. The others stayed behind to find him,” I clarified.

In a swift motion, Miranda pulled James into a firm yet gentle embrace, careful with his shoulder. She seemed to sense where it was that he was hurting without him having to say a word.

“Hello you,” she murmured into his neck, her voice dripping with emotion. James was still and silent in her arms, but I saw the lids of his eyes shut with the weight of her touch. “You are dripping blood all over my floor.”

James huffed a small, pained laugh.

“Don’t listen to her, dear,” Mary implored and gestured to the small settee. “Come in, sit down. You look dead on your feet, both of you.”

Despite our brief greeting, I had taken note of the modest furniture, the wallpaper, the dusty lamps bathing the room with a warm light. I had noticed a small front garden, the masonry lining the outside of the cottage. There was the faint scent of beeswax in the air and a fragrance of lemon and lavender, which I realised was one that Miranda favoured. But there was no time to marvel at the homely comforts that Mary and Miranda had instilled for themselves in such a short time. I turned to James. 

“James, I need to get you proper stitches on that shoulder. The makeshift bandage can only do so much, after all.”

He nodded in exhausted compliance, and tore himself away from Miranda slowly. He removed both coats and his shirt in—somewhat surprising—haste, and handed them to Miranda to do away with. Mary had rushed past us into the hall to fetch my medical bag, I assumed. She returned in a moment with it in hand, before herself and Miranda left us to the fire, with Miranda placing a kiss on James’ forehead. At that moment I was less so Mary’s husband or even her friend, I was a doctor returning from war with an injured patient.

“Have a seat here.” I pulled one of the dining chairs from the large wooden table and flipped it toward him. As he collapsed into the chair, I could swear I witnessed each of James’ bones expel just a breath of the weariness lining them. I pulled up a seat for myself, and began unpacking my supplies.

“You do not have to do this, Doctor Watson. You are injured as well, after all.”

“Nonsense. Scratches and bruises aside, I am under an oath. I am the best suited individual in our current group to perform the stitches required here, anyway. Now, turn toward me, please.”

I knew he could tell I was diminishing the significance of my injuries for his sake, but he did not mention it in the moment. Instead, James complied, twisting his body towards me the way I directed it. His muscles were so tense I was afraid they would snap the second I touched him.I began preparing a suture needle after cleaning the surrounding area of his wound. The bullet was nowhere to be seen, but the damage left behind was undeniable.

The only sign of any discomfort in James’ face was a slight twitch under his eye. “Do you think they made it? Do you think they caught the second transport?”

A sigh fell from my lips then, unsure of how to answer the weathered man before me. To be hopeful may offer him a more substantial comfort than was possible to confirm in that moment. But, I knew James to be sensible, and able to parse through my inability to predict the results of such a detailed plan. I lined up my needle, and made the first stitch. As James hissed through the pain, I responded.

“I can only hope they did, after all. However, Madi and Max appear to be skilled tacticians, and I know that you definitely are one. Given all three minds combined, along with Holmes’ intellect, Silver and Rackham’s wit, and Vane and Anne’s brawn, I doubt that we would fail unless something unprecedented and unstoppable comes against them.”

“True,” James breathed, and I could feel his shoulder relaxing as much as he could under my hands. “I have no doubt in Madi and Max. I have every doubt in Silver, Vane, and Rackham, but I do hope that Anne Bonny’s scowl and your colleague’s presence will stop them from killing each other.” His eyes met mine and I could see that he was struggling with something, something that would not quite reach his voice. “Doctor. These— The men we saw in that first transport. What had been done to them?” 

I paused my ministrations for a moment at the repeat of the memory in my mind. It would take many years for the image of what we found in that train car to be erased.

“They— It is a practise of surgery performed on the brain. Frowned upon in many civilised institutions as it is considered to be unnecessarily cruel. I would—I would assume that, whatever place these men came from, the doctors there had no such scruples.”

“And the same thing may well have been done to Thomas.” It was not a question.

“I—” For a brief second, my words caught in my throat. The image already present in my mind replaced one of the poor souls I saw with an image of Thomas. A man such as him did not belong on the dirty floor of a train car, with half his mind left behind. I had seen, first hand, the brilliance he was capable of, and the sheer idea of that being ripped from him was somehow worse than when I had thought him dead. “It is not impossible.”

James’ breathing quickened, though he clearly made an effort to stay collected as much as he could. “Vane said it is a life akin to slavery. He killed them because he knew this; he has seen it before, I know as much. Would you— is this an assessment you would agree with, Doctor Watson?”

I took a calculated breath as I finished the first set of stitches before answering the weighted question. I motioned for him to lean forward so as to begin on the other side of his wounded shoulder.

“I do not know much of Vane. The question of the value of living when your mind is warped and altered in such a manner is one I cannot answer. I am not of a higher power to dictate such value upon others. What I can say to you, James, is that regardless of the state Thomas is in when he is found, not one man on that mission will lay a harmful hand upon him without your consultation.”

“That is not the reason why I enquired.” James exhaled deeply to offset the pain of the thread going into his skin. “If— If Thomas is in a state such as this—you know him, doctor. You know how important his mind is to him. He would not wish for a life such as this, I am sure of it.” James looked up over his shoulder. “Perhaps this is unfair of me to ask, but I will do so anyway: had our places been swapped and you were faced with the same decision regarding Holmes, in this worst case scenario, how would you act?”

I would be dishonest to say that the direct comparison made between Holmes and I to Thomas and James did not shake me. I halted my suturing in contemplation of his meaning, before deciding it best to just ask him what he meant.

“Wh—Why, Holmes and I could not possibly be—”

James raised an inquisitive eyebrow—I could only see the corner of it. Despite the darkness of the situation, there seemed to be some amusement in his expression. “Could not…?”

“We are not—” What was it that I wanted to say? Why was I reacting so strongly to James’ question? “It is not a comparison you can make, James, for mine and Holmes’ friendship has nothing in common with your affections for Thomas.”

James’ mouth curled. “Do you remember, Doctor Watson, the day when your colleague split my lip in Baker Street?”

I startled at what seemed to me a sudden change of topic. “Of course. That day…” My memory from that fateful morning returned to my mind in vivid colour. The pain I felt after that day was only now beginning to mend. “That day is one I cannot forget.”

“Do you know why Holmes attacked me that day?”

“He thought you had attacked Thomas, right?”

James huffed indignantly, as if the years-old assumption still pained him. “Perhaps. Initially, I am certain that was his motivation; I am certain he was to confront me the next time he saw me after he heard the news. However, when he saw me standing in his rooms, with you—I daresay he thought I was about to attack _you_ , doctor.”

“What are you implying, James?” I noticed the faintest shake in my fingers then, and I was grateful to be nearly finished with the stitching. If he was attempting to say what I thought he might, I doubted I could withstand the emotional blow. 

“I would be rather grateful if you did not tear my skin with the suture.” There was no animosity in James’ voice; quite the contrary. “I shall be plain with you, doctor. One does not need to be a detective to see, quite clearly, that Holmes’ feelings for you are just as deep as the ones you have harboured for him all these years.”

As the words left him, my heart seized in my chest. I was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was wrong. He had to be wrong, for what other option existed now? My thoughts reverted back to that brief exchange Holmes and I shared after my gunshot wound, and how his face portrayed such an intense fear and rage in my defense. Could he truly feel what James insinuated?

“Why are you telling me this?” was the question my whirring mind landed upon.

The smile fell away from James’ face as he inhaled, careful not to nudge under my fingers. “I suppose—” he trailed off. The muscle under his eye jumped again, and in the dark twilight, I saw the mask of James Flint fall away; as if he was unmade. James McGraw was seated in front of me, weathered, wounded, and full of entirely too much grief for his young age—for I forgot, with all that he put himself through, for all his brilliance, he was so devastatingly young still. “I suppose that if the events of tonight do not turn out in the way I hope— if Thomas and I do not get a happy ending to our story, I wish for someone else to have one to theirs. It is what he would have wanted, too.”

I finished stitching up James’ shoulder before all the air in my lungs vanished with the nonexistent wind. He said this as though this projected happy ending for Holmes and I was inevitable with this knowledge in my hands. As though the only thing preventing it before this moment was my own foolish mind. I fetched a fresh bandage from my medical bag with shaking hands.

As I did so, James followed me with his bright gaze. The silence between us weighed heavy and uncomfortable as I had made no comment in reply to his statement. “Thomas knew,” he said, finally. “He told me, that day when I went to see him after being in Holmes’ rooms. He was so utterly convinced of it, I could not disbelieve him.” James shook his head and laughed at the memory. “I know how you must feel, right now. I— felt much the same, many years ago. Uncertain. Afraid. Ashamed. But then, I met Thomas and I thought— I thought, how could it be wrong if a man such as he wanted the same? How could it be sinful? How could it be a crime? Every day in which I looked upon his face, my resolve crumbled. There is nothing to be afraid of. It is— liberating, once you let go of this fear. It opens your heart to affection you may not have seen before.”

“I—” My hands fell away from James’ wound. He carefully felt the fragile stitching with his fingertips. “I do not know what to say, James. These are— deep feelings, thoughts I have harboured for many years, and I do not know if— if I can simply—”

“I understand.” James rose to his feet and shrugged his shirt on, with obvious effort. “And you do not need to say anything. I have said what I wanted to say and that is the end of it. I think you need to tend to your leg—and we both need to rest, before we see what the rest of the night brings us.”

“Quite right.” I nodded in somewhat solemn agreement at the reminder of how much chance lay in the balance still. All we had left to do was wait, and hope.


	34. XX

The night stretched around us, long and undulating, as we sat in the darkness and waited, electing not to speak any more. For a few moments, I thought James may well nod off—for he seemed to be just on the edge of it—however his nerves seemed to chase sleep away from his eyes. I felt much the same. After bandaging my own wound with what supplies I had left, I felt fatigue creep into my very bones. I could not entertain the thought of sleeping, though. Not when I had no idea what Holmes’ fate was, not when I did not know whether I would see him alive again.

After Miranda had reassured herself that James had, indeed, not dropped dead in their dining room, she and Mary wandered off to walk along the hillside in the chilled night air. Both of them seemed rather wired with the knowledge that the remainder of our party lay not far behind us.

James seemed to exist in some other dimension of consciousness, as his fingers played with a loose thread from his shirt. He looked around at the room we were seated in—sparse at best in its furnishings, with ugly wallpaper from a previous ownership peeling off the walls. His eyes roamed, looking lost. Then, to my great surprise, he smiled; for the briefest second, he looked at least a decade younger.

“Do you know, Doctor Watson,” he said, his voice heavy with tears he did not seem capable of shedding. “I think Thomas would rather like it here.”

Unable to procure a response, I placed a comforting hand on his forearm. James accepted it, and although the tension in his frame remained, his breathing seemed to ease up ever so slightly. 

After a period of quiet, a thought came to my mind. One that, perhaps, I should have thought of earlier on in our planning, and yet it managed to sneak past me. Given the man it centred upon, this felt rather laced with irony.

“James,” I began with a softness, hoping not to startle the man. “When they arrive as planned, where will Mr. Silver be going?”

A surprised jolt came over him at that as he inhaled, as though the words had awoken him from a dream. 

“Beg pardon?”

I parsed over my thoughts for a moment, and remembered the interactions I had seen between Silver and James in the weeks since my arrival in Glasgow. Subtle touches, shared glances, and—perhaps more than anything else—promises. The words Silver spoke before our departure from the train rang clear in my mind. _I will leave no stone unturned. I will stay at as many stations as I need to and wait a day, a month, a year, forever, as long as it takes._

“Vane, Rackham, and Bonny have their own plans upon the success of the heist, yes? After all, they were never there for Thomas to begin with, their goals lay in undermining Richard Guthrie. But, Silver will be coming here. I wonder, I suppose, why that is? He has a wife to return to, does he not?”

James did not meet my eyes, but I could see he was deep in thought. His fingers twisted the ring on his little finger absentmindedly. “Did I tell you the story of how I met John Silver, Doctor Watson?”

“No, I cannot say you have.”

“On the day we received that letter, the one informing us of Thomas’ death, I could not stand the feeling of being in my own skin. I desperately wanted to forget it all, to become someone else, to die a death in all ways but physical. So, I went to the first molly house I could find, I threw money at the first man I saw and took him into a room.” James swallowed. “That man took one look at me and he produced a bottle of rum. ‘You do not need to fuck,’ he told me. ‘You need to drink and talk.’ So drink and talk I did, all through the night. That man was John Silver.” James’ mouth curled, whether in a scowl or in a smile I struggled to say. “Then, in the morning, I found that he had pickpocketed me out of a trading route for the next shipment of cotton I was planning to disrupt.”

His story took the words from my mouth and left them outside my reach. Such an introduction befitted them better than I could have thought possible, and yet I felt a twinge of something in the back of my mind. The affection that bled through James’ story was undeniable, and while it was something I had allowed to warm my heart in recent weeks, the reality of things started to sit rather heavy upon my shoulders.

Unbothered by my silence, James continued. He had slipped into the story as effortlessly as I had seen him do before; this man, I thought—with some degree of envy—was born to be a storyteller. 

“The route then found its way into Madi’s hands, which is how I met her. Silver could tell we were cut from the same cloth, could see that her and I were of one mind. I think—I believe that frightened him.” James sighed. “Now that I look back on myself, I can see why. The man I was then—I did not much care what would happen to me, for I saw no reason to stay alive. I threw myself in front of the fire and I did not care who else would burn to cinders. In a bid to protect his wife from what he saw was a dangerous influence, Silver— he did something that disrupted our efforts, briefly.” The sentence seemed to stick to James’ throat. “I—it is too much of a difficult story to impart in full, but the trust between him and Madi, between me and him, was damaged that day, damaged to what I thought was beyond repair. The reason why he came with me to Glasgow was because he hoped to earn his absolution for his perceived faults.” James rubbed his eyes, whether chasing sleep from them or wiping at a dampness there, I could not say. “Once he knew of the chance that Thomas could be alive, he wanted to do everything in his power to save him. At first I thought it was to repair his relationship with Madi but— I would be lying now if I said I did not know that he is doing it for my sake alone.”

I noticed something in James’ voice then, something familiar that I had not heard in nearly six years. As he spoke of John Silver and their complicated bond, a tenderness coated his words in such a way that I was brought back to a conversation in a darkened parlour of 221B Baker Street. I remembered how he spoke of Thomas, and how he bared his soul to me just days after our first meeting in an effort to save the man he loved. Now, whilst a similar weight of urgency burdened us, I saw that very same devotion in him toward Silver. 

“Do you wish for him to stay with you here, James?” was all I could think to ask.

James took a deep breath. “All I wish for him to do is what would make him happy,” he said carefully. “Seeing him in Glasgow with Madi—it is clear he cares for her deeply, and she cares for him in equal measure. It would be difficult for him… to be away from her.”

“You did not answer the question, James. What is it that _you_ want?”

It is then that James looked at me. There was something scared and vulnerable in his eyes. “I don’t know.” It was perhaps the first time I had ever heard him say this, this man always so sure of himself. “It is— I love Thomas, of course I do. I have never stopped and I never will. But—” He ran his hand over his shorn head in an abstracted motion. “But I do not think I would know myself without Silver at my side. It would feel very much like— well, like losing a limb.” James took a deep breath, steeling himself. “It does not matter. Silver will do what Silver wants to do; he has never let others decide his fate for him and he is not about to start doing so now.” 

I found myself turning my hands over themselves in thought at James’ reply, attempting to select my next words with care. 

“In these last weeks since Glasgow, you have introduced me to an incredible collective of characters. These people are not any I would have met of my own volition, and many of them terrify me to my very core, even still. Silver is counted among that list, to be frank with you. And yet, despite their dangerous habits and skills with weaponry or explosives, I have noticed a common thread among them all, and I believe this thread extends to you just the same. Through even the harshest of circumstances, prejudices, or even terrors, all of you maintain an unstoppable, unwavering affection for one another. Whether it be Silver and Madi, Max and Anne, Madi and Max, Vane and Rackham, or perhaps most evidently with yourself and Silver, there is a love shared among you all that I cannot deny. It is not so simple as the love between a husband and wife, nor even love such as yours and Thomas’ for one another. I believe that, perhaps, such affection is not something you need limit yourself from reaping the benefits of, certainly not now. Not after all that you have endured in its absence. I think, James, that Thomas would agree with me on that.”

James laughed at this, a small, broken, wet sound. His eyes glistened in the dark. “He definitely would. You have spent _entirely_ too much time around Thomas, doctor. Even after half a decade, you sound exactly like him.” He pressed his forehead to his palm, his shoulders tense with a heavy emotion. “Dear Lord, I—”

Whatever it was that James was about to say, it was left unsaid—for our conversation was suddenly interrupted by Mary, rushing into the room. She was flushed, out of breath and her eyes were shining in the darkness.

“James,” she half-sobbed, half-whispered. “They—”

She did not need to finish. James was on his feet much faster than I would have presumed possible for a man with his injuries, and out of the door like a shot. I took Mary’s hand to stand and went right after him, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

I nearly ran into James’ back, who was frozen in place several steps outside the cottage’s garden gate. I opened my mouth to ask but I did not need to—for just outside, in the middle of the country road, I could see Miranda, clinging to Thomas Hamilton as if her life depended on it. 

Tears fogged my eyesight as I saw the scene and I put an unconscious hand on James’ uninjured shoulder, whether to steady him or myself I was not certain. Holmes and Silver—visibly unharmed, save for a few scrapes, thank the Lord—stood on the side, next to their horses. Silver looked as if he were about to fall over with exhaustion, however my dear friend was as awake and alert as ever and as he met my eyes, Holmes gave me a small, relieved grin. How happy I was to see his face, how glad I was that he was alive and well! 

Shaking like a leaf, Miranda let go of Thomas and cupped his face, still sobbing, in disbelief of what she was seeing. Then, she stepped to the side and I saw the moment when Thomas and James locked eyes across the small distance separating them. 

After years and oceans apart, here they stood at an impasse, mere steps away from each other. Thomas had changed, visibly aged much more than five years. A beard now spanned his jaw, his blonde hair was streaked with grey, and he was thinner, rougher, far from the pristine Lord I had once known. Through his rough linen clothes I could see a scar peeking out from his neck, another one on his bare forearm, the raised skin oddly coloured in the faint lights of the moon. However, his eyes were much the same, bright, awake, and, as they looked at James, overflowing with affection in a way I had never seen in another human being. 

Thomas let go of Miranda and started towards James, single-minded, blind and deaf to all else around him. James seemed frozen in place, as if he feared he was trapped in a dream, that Thomas would disappear in a puff of smoke. I gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, which seemed to bring him back some. With a small, uncertain step, he walked towards Thomas, and I could see the way his nails dug into his palms. 

When they came together—with Thomas more or less leaping into James’ arms—it felt as if the entire world stilled and took a deep inhale. Or perhaps it was just us who did so, I am not sure. I knew for myself that I was witnessing a miracle. 

Thomas was laughing and James was crying, their bodies shuddering where they pressed against each other. James was sobbing audibly, struggling to breathe. They seemed to be touching everywhere, from their foreheads to the tips of their toes, and it still did not seem to be quite enough. James’ hands clutched at Thomas’ rough linen shirt as if he could crawl in between its folds and make himself a home there. Thomas’ hands kept running over James’ shorn hair, over the scabs on his scalp, over the silver stud that now shone in his left ear. He was mapping out the five years worth of changes in his lover in a disbelieving, fearful way, reminding me of the intensity within religious devotion. 

They pulled back, and brought their foreheads together. Thomas said something, barely a whisper, which was well beyond my earshot, but James’ incredulous reply, half-sobbed half-laughed came through clearly.

“You’ve been imprisoned and tortured for _five years_ , and you’re asking if _I’m_ okay?” and he laughed until he once again cried. “Dear God, Thomas. Thomas. _Thomas_.”

James continued to sob out his lover’s name in short bursts of frightened, frantic air that Thomas took into himself with a deep, loving kiss. 

For all my years on this earth, I had never seen an expression of love such as theirs; two human beings, whom fate had dealt the unluckiest of cards, had defeated the odds and come out on the other side covered with terrible wounds, yet capable of existing in tenderness. As improper as it may have been, I could stop looking at them.

Slowly, my eyes shifted away, and caught sight of Silver. He was staring at James and Thomas, mesmerised and unable to tear his gaze away, much like the rest of us. In his blue eyes, there was an intense hurt beneath the surface of delight. As joyous as he clearly was to see this happy ending, he also looked as if he were at a funeral, grieving the death of his true love. It did not take the skills of a detective to deduct what emotion was written all over John Silver’s face. James was too preoccupied, too dazed by Thomas’ presence, but if he could lift his face from where it was hidden in Thomas’ shoulder, he would see it too. 

And then, my eyes fell upon Sherlock Holmes. Any other time, I may have kicked myself for associating a moment of pure tenderness between two loving people with him. However, in this moment, his eyes fell onto mine, and a wave of an emotion I did not know before washed over me. His face was soft, a smile just beginning to form upon his lips. In my many years of cataloguing the behaviours of him, this one look was above all others in its magnitude. I found myself mirroring the tender expression, by a will outside my own. Or, perhaps, a will I had allowed only to exist in the deepest, darkest parts of me, until seeing such open love between men I saw so much of ourselves in. His eyes glistened in the white light of the moon, and despite the crisp chill of early spring, my heart felt warmed in a way I did not recognise. It was not the sharp ache of yearning, or the dull agony of an affection so often pushed aside. This look along his pointed features was somehow unknown and yet unbearably familiar. 

It was then that I realised just how frequent that same look had passed over him in my presence. Whether it was almost twenty years ago, as he regaled me with his most astute observations of the Jefferson Hope case; that sparkle of pride and excitement. Or, if it was in the moments before he turned his revolver upon the man who had dared put me in harm's way upon the train just days prior. Perhaps, it was found more often in moments I did not see. In the times I looked upon the result of a case he so astutely solved, and he admired my thrill from afar. How many times had this look upon his face gone unseen? How many times had it been seen, but dismissed as nothing but a fanciful expression from an eccentric man I adored above all others? How long had these glances meant what I dared to interpret them to mean now, before two men who loved so free of the shackles of shame?

The only thing to break me away from this new discovery was Thomas’ voice, rough around the edges and somewhat muffled from where his face was still pressed into James’ shoulder. 

“I don’t know about you all, but I could certainly sleep for at least a week.”

A buzz of laughter came from several directions. Mary, handkerchief in hand, wiped her eyes of the lingering tears there as James tore himself away from his lover, slow and methodical. Silver approached him and reached to touch James’ elbow but seemed to think better of it. Mary hugged Thomas herself and I approached him then, feeling weak in the knees. Thomas seemed dazed—for how overwhelming this must all be for him, after five years of complete isolation and bone-crushing loneliness—but his face broke into a wide smile as he saw me. 

My mouth worked uselessly, and I came to realise that I had no idea what I wanted to say to him. For what does one say at all, what words would be strong enough for this moment? Thankfully, Thomas did not seem to demand any words of me either—instead, he beamed, pulling me into an embrace. One-armed, as James was still holding onto his hand, never wanting to let go. 

James then led Thomas into the cottage beside Mary and Miranda’s. Silver stood in the road, his hand flexing into thin air. Awkwardness was an odd look to him. 

“I suppose—” His voice sounded strained. “I will go to Featherstone and—”

“Mr. Silver,” Thomas spoke, turning around to look at the man. It felt like the continuation of a conversation the two of them had started hours ago. Something passed between the two men, something that buzzed like an electric charge in the air. James seemed oblivious to it, dead to the world outside Thomas, where his face was buried in his shoulder.

After a beat of silence, Silver nodded. He followed Thomas and James, and closed the door behind them with a definitive click.

Mary and Miranda walked up to their cottage and wished us a pleasant night. I realised then that the last of the three, the one at the end of the road with the great oak tree and the white wooden fence was the one that had been assigned to myself and Holmes. I had not questioned this; had not even considered what our living arrangements would be so far ahead. I wondered then, if Mary had known that the events of recent days would have had the effect of revelation I so experienced. Was my wife so astute in her knowledge of me, of Holmes, to know that the view of James and Thomas’ affections would hurl us out of our decades of hiding in shadow? The answer did not matter, I supposed. As the other five members of our strange new family ventured into the havens of their new homes, Holmes and I stood before our own threshold in silence for just a moment.

The dim firelight of the lantern beside the door warmed the area as we entered the cottage. Our cottage. Holmes walked in front of me, and I locked the door behind us. No oil lamps were illuminated as we stood in the quiet. The darkness swirled around us, suffocating me with nearly two decades of waiting—of shame.

“All this time? After all that we have done?” Holmes finally spoke, a creak in his voice I did not wish to hear again. I could do one of two things now: claim ignorance as to what he referred, or fall in. Dive into the heart of what I had kept locked away for so long, in the hopes I may be able to float up to the surface again. 

“I did not think it was possible. That sort of affection— _devotion_ between men such as them. I—I thought it doomed.” My mind appeared to make itself up as it went.

“The years—” Holmes choked on his words. “The years without you doomed me far worse.”

“You knew of my persuasion, Holmes. You must have, after James and Thomas. There was no hiding it any longer, certainly not from you.”

Holmes’ darkened, silhouetted eyes looked up at me then from their firm place on the floor.

“I… I thought your heart belonged elsewhere. I did not think that I—”

“How? I wrote such romantic, foolish musings in our younger years. I feared I had been so blatant it may incriminate me at any moment! You are ever so observant in your work, how did something so overbearing in my eyes elude you?”

Holmes collapsed onto the sofa, his head in his hands. “It appears this is one failure of my work that you cannot report,” he said with a huffed, pained laugh. “Watson… I cannot state the depths to which I am sorry.” The mask so often adorned on his face—one of cold calculation, or enthusiasm from an investigation—had vanished. Below, I found the pure emotion held within the man I’ve known for so long. A quiver in the lip, a stammer in his speech, and all that managed to emerge through it was a burdened man I had made a mission out of protecting. “I thought it better to throw myself into the fire and loneliness than to consider taking you with me.”

I could not tolerate the distance between us any longer, and resigned myself to sit beside him on the cushions. We sat in silence for a moment as I formulated an answer on my lips. 

“I would suffer a thousand burns before feeling that distance from you ever again.”

A faint sob wretched from Holmes’ throat at that, and it was only then that I noticed the wetness upon my own cheeks. There was a deep exhaustion weighing on my bones, and I wanted nothing more than to take the man next to me into my arms and never release him. 

“I do not want your apology, Holmes,” I spoke again after many agonising seconds. “All I want is an answer to one question.”

“Anything, anything you wish.”

I turned to look at him, and saw the reflective tears streaking his cheeks. I wondered if, had we been in daylight, I would have seen such emotion from him at all. Was it to the credit of darkness that a realisation of this magnitude was possible?

“May I kiss you, Holmes?”

The man beside me shuddered, and his eyes met mine again. In this moment we were not doctor and detective, we were not biographer and subject. Here, after the storms and battles we faced, we were two men who had spent decades dreaming of the other, only for such dreams to finally come to fruition. 

As his lips met mine, I felt my mind go blank of all thought that may have occupied it before. My hand reached up to his jaw, and then to his neck; as though keeping him in place, desperate for the moment to last forever. His soft touch first came to my shoulder, and then to the back of my head. Our kiss intensified as the shackles around us shattered, much the same as the ones we freed Thomas from. 

When I willed myself to pull away, the faint lantern light from outside glimmered in Holmes’ eye.

“Sherlock…” 

Holmes’ name slipped from my mouth before I could catch it in my teeth. I jolted in spite of myself, but not before I felt Holmes shiver under my touch. Had I offended him in some manner? Had I ruined the beauty of our shared moment with such a foolish blunder?

“I-I’m sorry, I did not—” I attempted, but was interrupted as his lips crashed into mine with fervour. There was an intensity behind this new kiss that was less present in the first—as though Holmes was trying to pour two decades of feeling into one touch. When he released me, our eyes met for me to see the fire now burning within him.

“Say it again.” I had always known him to be an impatient man when regarding something he wanted, but before I thought such things existed only in the work of detection. To see the same want directed my way overwhelmed me, though I could not deny him.

“Sherlock.”

“John.” He said my Christian name with a disbelieving grin forming on his face, as though the very syllable was a prayer upon his lips. Holmes—Sherlock—looked at the air between us as though every particle around him was as incredible to him as a new clue to a case. As if the state of things before him was fleeting, lost any second now in the wanting of daydreams or old musings. I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong—that this was not a feeling to be left in the dust of fantasy. 

“I am in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.” His gaze snapped up at me again, and something akin to shock lined his face. 

Tears flowed freely from his eyes now, and I allowed myself the indulgence of wiping them away with my thumb.

“I am in love with you, John.” 

It was not as if we had not spoken our given names aloud to one another before. Of course, there were times we uttered it as an introduction to a client, a friend. But, in the stagnant nighttime air, on an unfamiliar sofa in an unknown place, hearing my name said softly from his lips was the one home I could find.

* * *

I awoke the next morning to a gentle tapping upon my arm.

“John,” a soft voice murmured beside me. “John, wake up.”

I opened my eyes to see the somewhat silhouetted face of none other than Sherlock Holmes, hovering above me. The room was dark still, yet a faint blue hue spread across the room we now shared.

“Sherlock,” I muttered through my bleary haze. Out of my line of sight, a set of cautious lips pressed against my shoulder. 

“Get up, my dear doctor, or else we may well miss the sunrise.”

I could not defy the request of such a lilting voice belonging to a man I cared so much for. I attempted to curl toward him for a brief grasp at the closeness we shared the night before, but instead I was met with fabric being thrown in my direction. Of course, I would be a fool to say his restlessness was not expected. 

“No need for any formal wear. Here you are,” he continued, tossing me a warm set of pyjamas and a red dressing gown. It appeared that Mary and Miranda had stocked the cottage in advance.

I quickly started adorning myself in the clothing he threw my way, and looked to see that he was dressed in the majority of his suit, save for the waistcoat and jacket. On top of which, he wore his favourite blue silk dressing gown, lined with a rather delicate lace pattern. If I was less racked with the weariness of sleep interrupted, I may have commented on the rather feminine garment being yet another sign of Sherlock’s inclination that I missed.

Instead, I smiled up at him as he watched me button up my shirt, and slipped on my winter slippers that he had placed before me. There was an unbearable weight within my chest as I realised, rather abruptly, that this was not the first time Sherlock had selected clothing for me after arousing me from sleep in the early morning. In our younger years, it was a rather common occurrence, in fact. Now, there was a quite separate gravity to the action. He was helping me dress myself in typical clothing, not a disguise. He was waking me from our shared bed, rather than my own bedroom. And, perhaps the most significant shift, he was not waking me up for the purpose of a lead in a most fascinating case. Now, all he wished for was to watch the sunrise in our new home.

As we made our way outside, it was just before dawn, and a foggy mist coated the outside air with its early spring dew. There was a small stone bench beside the front door of our cottage that I had not noticed in my emotion the night before, and Sherlock and I elected to sit upon it after he lay down a blanket he procured from the sofa inside. 

Looking to my right, along the curve of the road, I saw the cottage that James, Thomas, and Silver had been chosen to occupy. To the side of the front door, I caught sight of James and Silver standing next to one another, joined at the shoulders. James looked as if he were struggling to stay upright, but his eyes were fixed on the horizon and the rapidly undulating sky. Silver, on the other hand, did not seem able to look away from James’ face. Before I could think to wonder where Thomas may have been, the door to Mary and Miranda’s cottage opened, and the women living within it emerged in nightgowns and light coats. None of us had planned to meet outside at sunrise the morning after Thomas’ rescue, and yet our three separate households had elected to share this experience all the same. 

Mary caught sight of Sherlock and I first, and she sent a wave with a knowing glance our way. I sent back a kind wave, and as if to confirm her suspicion, Sherlock took my free hand in his and offered a greeting in return just seconds after me. Mary’s grin transformed into a beaming smile, and she turned to Miranda to whisper something before the both of them turned back to acknowledge us in silence. As I peered past them and back to the furthest cottage, the sun beginning to peek through the clouds just ahead, something curious caught my eye. 

James and Silver were, for a lack of a better word, arguing, but it was not truly an argument. Yes, James seemed tired and exasperated as he always did, and yes, John Silver seemed to carry the already familiar expression on his face that implied that he was always right, however their bodies seemed to be gravitating towards each other rather than shying away. Silver raised a sarcastic eyebrow, James threw his hands in the air saying something else and then, to my infinite surprise, John Silver reached and pulled James close and crushed their mouths together in a kiss. 

I blinked; I was quite sure that Silver had noticed us on our doorsteps. Perhaps he thought that we were distracted enough with our own exchange, or perhaps his desperation had crowned to the point that he was heedless of whether anyone saw him. Even from the considerable distance we had between us, I could see in clear view the ease that settled over James’ shoulders as his hands pulled Silver closer by the lapels as if he intended to devour him. I thought of our conversation, of our fear just earlier in this endless evening, and felt my chest warm with happiness for him. Silver, it seemed, was going to be staying, at least for a while.

“Remarkable, is it not, John?” Sherlock asked with a hushed voice against my ear. The closeness of it made my heart soar. 

I hummed inquisitively in reply, my eyes still set upon the door of the cottage furthest from us. Thomas emerged from the door, and by the Lord, was it still a shock to see him there in the flesh, so undoubtedly alive. I did not quite know if this awe would wear off. He looked rather fuzzy around the eyes but did not seem at all surprised at the moment of intimacy he had caught Silver and James in; even if Silver did jump back as if he were burned. James just huffed and disappeared into the cottage, returning with a blanket to throw over Thomas’ shoulders. Silver kept looking at the two of them, his fingers once again undulating with apprehension. Even from this far, I could almost clear James’ exasperated sigh, as he pulled Thomas close with one arm, and offered his free hand to Silver. Bewildered, Silver took it, while Thomas, entirely unsurprised by this turn of events, nuzzled into James’ shoulder. With that, I could swear to God, Thomas appeared to fall asleep while standing.

The sky turned the most remarkable shade of lilac, pink, and gold as light poured into our modest road in Marilés.

“The sunrise. I have always found the dawn rather remarkable.”

His statement was simple, and was a sentiment many people share with him. And yet, something in my heart fluttered at the words. The idea that Sherlock Holmes, a man I so often thought to be above simple joys in life, more interested in criminal studies than domesticity or romance, enjoyed something as natural and common as a sunrise. I turned my gaze away from the fuschia and lavender sky to meet the eyes of the contradictory man I adore with all my heart, and saw a golden ray reflect off of his blue irises. He stared ahead, basking in the warm glow of morning, and I saw how the light pooled into the broad, thoughtful lines of his face.

“Remarkable indeed,” I replied, mesmerised, and if Sherlock knew that I was not speaking of the sunrise at all, he said not a word. We just sat there, at the end of this long night, hand in hand, bathed by the early morning light.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with that, this marks the end of Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace! stay tuned on Sunday for the epilogue <3


	35. Epilogue

_ To the honourable Dr. John H. Watson, care of Mr. Augustus Featherstone, Mayor of Marilès, France _

_ Dear Dr. Watson _ —

_ I am pleased to inform you that Charles and I have successfully made our way to Germany. I cannot divulge the full details of our location, however it is safe to say that we came a rather long way since we last saw each other. _

_ The scheme that Mr. Silver so expertly hatched last-minute worked rather well. No one seemed to bat an eyelid at the fact that the train carried two prisoners in excess to what they were expecting. Once we had reached the sanatorium, it was very much as your friend had suggested—the men there were, without exception, political prisoners from England and beyond, doomed to a wretched existence. It was a simple matter of securing all the inmates’ safety and leading an organised rebellion against the English proprietor and his despicable underlings. It may sound like a tall task, but I assure you, organised rebellion is something Charles Vane is rather proficient at.  _

_ We left the sanatorium a fortnight ago, with all inmates safely with us. It has burned down to the ground and it will never harm another human being ever again. _

* * *

It took all of two days for us to see Thomas Hamilton again after his rescue. He called upon mine and Sherlock’s doorstep early one morning, catching us bleary-eyed and still nursing our morning cups of tea. It still felt like a shock to see him, alive and well, sitting at our kitchen table. I could see the lines that the years had carved into his face, crow’s feet that were far too deep, the tetchiness in his form. He was a ghost made flesh to my eyes. 

“Dear Lord, Thomas,” I said with quiet wonder. “I can scarcely believe my eyes to see you here, after all this time.”

The teacup looked ever so small in Thomas’ hands. He smiled, warm and kind, and he had not changed that much after all, I realised. 

“It is an odd feeling, Doctor Watson, to have a cup of tea for the first time in five years.” 

Something clenched at my throat. “I apologise, it is not a very good one, my friend.”

“It is quite all right.” Thomas’ eyes flicked from me to Sherlock, who sat in his chair with his pipe, quiet and uncomfortable. I tensed even though I did not know why. As usual, there was no malice of any kind present in Thomas’ gaze, simply curiosity. 

“Have you been up to very much over the last two days? I would imagine you and James would have many things to discuss.”

“In all honesty, Doctor Watson, I have spent them sleeping for the most part, as has James, mainly at Mr. Silver’s behest. He was so sore and bruised, he looked as if he had been set upon by ten men.” Thomas sounded pained as he said this. 

“More, perhaps. James was rather set on freeing you, as you may imagine. He would not let a living soul stand in his way.”

“I have no trouble believing it.” Thomas’ kind blue eyes had not left Sherlock’s face. “Doctor Watson, as much as I would enjoy catching up with the particulars of our time apart, I came here with another request. I was wondering if I could have a word with your colleague alone?”

For some undefinable reason, I felt a pang of anxiety at this simple request. I knew, of course, that Thomas was aware of Sherlock’s involvement with the Earl of Ashbourne that had led to his imprisonment, for his last words, as conveyed to us by Miranda, had not stopped ringing in my ears for the last five years. I feared leaving Sherlock vulnerable to this emotional turmoil, to this conversation that was certain to bring him great distress. Every muscle in my body tensed protectively.

I looked at Thomas. He was still sitting there, with his hands still too big for his teacup, looking gentle and patient as he always did. From where his sleeve was rolled up, I could see raised scar tissue run down his wrist. 

“John.” Sherlock’ fingers gently touched the back of my hand and I looked at him. “It is alright.” Then, he met Thomas’ eyes again. “Lord Hamilton.”

Something twitched in Thomas’ face at the name. “Thomas, please.”

So, I left them. I went to check in on Mary and Miranda, fearful of being alone with my anxieties. As I returned, I found Sherlock alone, sat in the parlour, his eyes wide and swimming with tears still. I did not ask what it was that he and Thomas had talked about, and by the way he found his way into my arms, it seemed evident that he did not wish to discuss it either. All I could do was hold him close. I did not feel anger, or upset, and neither did Sherlock. Indeed, after he had calmed down and the sorrow had left his face, he seemed freed. I observed the easier step he walked with, the way he no longer stared into nothingness, lost within himself. Whatever it was Thomas had said, it had lifted something off Sherlock’s shoulders, something I had not even recognised was there. For that, I was grateful.

A week after this occasion, I decided to go check on James’ wound and Thomas’ general wellbeing; perhaps out of a desire to thank Thomas for the burden he had taken off Sherlock. As I walked past their cottage, I peered through the kitchen window and what I saw made me stop in my tracks. Their curtains were open and I could see them in their kitchen, barefoot, once again pressed close to one another. I felt guilty for intruding on a private moment of theirs yet again, but I could not bear to look away. Thomas held James’ face in both his hands and had tilted his face upwards, so that he could look directly into his lover’s eyes. He was planting soft, gentle kisses on James’ nose, on his cheeks, on his forehead, on his lips. James laughed and chased some of them, until he shook himself off from the grip before he held Thomas close again, burying his head in his shirt. Very much like the day that I had seen them reunite, they seemed to be reluctant to let go of each other even for a moment. At the time, I had attributed the expression on James’ face to the emotion of the moment but even there, in their horrible kitchen, my friend still looked at Thomas with the familiar wild fascination and endless devotion.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” 

I jumped to see John Silver, stood behind me with a bucket full of apples in his free hand. He, too, was looking at James and Thomas through the window. 

“You are very good at sneaking around with this,” I nodded towards his crutch.

Silver grinned but did not look away from Thomas and James. “You know, doctor, I did not expect him to be like this.”

“James, you mean? Yes, I imagine your time with him was quite different from Thomas’.”

“No,” Silver huffed. “No, there are very few things about Flint that can surprise me; I know his mind as well as I know my own, and I am very well aware of the tenderness he is capable of, when he is willing. No, I mean— I mean Thomas Hamilton.” He took a deep breath. “I do not know what I expected of him. I imagined I would shit myself when I first saw him, to be frank; the way Flint spoke of him, you would think he was some kind of otherworldly being, you know? But here he is now, and he is so— he is so very—” Silver was struggling to find the correct word.

“Honest, perhaps? Grounding may be another word. I know what you mean, though. He is quite the fascinating fellow.”

“Yes. Yes, he is all these things. Undoubtedly.” Silver took a deep breath and adjusted the grip on his crutch. “But, he is also absolutely fucking infuriating. He drives me up the wall, and he takes delight in doing it. I have never met someone as talented at being an absolute nuisance.” Silver rubbed his head on the edge of the bucket to scratch it absentmindedly. “And I cannot fathom why, Doctor Watson, but I seem to rather like it.” 

I kept my eyes on Silver, studying him curiously.

“So, I would take it that you have decided to stay with us for the time being, Mr. Silver? James had some doubts whether you would; he said, if I remember correctly, that you rarely let others determine your fate for you.”

A bashful smile came across Silver’s face. “He is quite right. I am rather a man of my own devices and I have always sought the freedom to make my own way into the world. So I hope you understand this, Doctor Watson, when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that in this matter, I had absolutely no choice.” 

A smile tugged at my lips. Before I could formulate a response, the front door to the cottage opened and James’ head popped out. He glowered at us but there was no heat behind it. The change in his face, after just a week of having Thomas back, was remarkable. He took the bucket of apples from Silver.

“Will you two come inside, or will you stand here and gossip about us all day long?”

Silver grinned and gave me a wink. “Captain, I have some excellent news for you. I believe I have managed to procure us a dairy goat.”

The look James gave Silver was one that suggested that he was either about to kiss him or punch him in the face. Perhaps both. “You do remember that dairy adamantly disagrees with my stomach, right?”

A laugh bubbled up from Silver at that, which only altered James’ expression further into one of confusion but eager affection. Years before, I may have struggled to see it, but it turned out that James McGraw was easier to read than he let on. 

I entered the cottage alongside Silver, and the day continued as normal. To think this was now the state of normalcy was surreal to me, yet all the more welcome in the presence of men such as them.

* * *

_ Charles and I are in regular contact with Madi and Max, who have now taken over The Hangman’s Rest as a base of operations. We often act as the fingers of their long hand here on the continent, finding and disrupting colonial transports from Eastern trade routes. It is not a bad life, as far as it goes; though I do find myself longing for Anne’s company often. She is happy with them and it is all I want for her. Yet I do miss her so.  _

_ I have heard word that they are spreading stories—of Sherlock Holmes and of Mr. Flint in particular. Theirs are two names that are still spoken with fear and reverence in the empire, and Richard Guthrie has attempted—and may I say failed  _ _ terrifically _ _ —in discrediting them. I would assume he is not best pleased that his daughter, Eleanor, fell to a band of raiders shortly after her altercation with us. I imagine he is even less pleased that said band of raiders were Spanish mercenaries, hired by her husband. _

_ However, doctor, I can assure you you are most safe. Max’ informants have been telling the tale of Sherlock Holmes’ heroic death on the coast of Calais, in a blast of a colonial transport caused by none other than Jack Rackham. I must say, I have received many compliments for my work, though the one that I had taken out the most skilled detective in the world has to be the highest of them all. _

* * *

Sherlock had always had a vague, yet earnest interest in bees. The life of an apiarist was not possible in a central London apartment—despite his many pleas to Mrs. Hudson over the years anyway—but it was quite attainable in rural France. 

He returned from the garden one warm afternoon, still adorned in his beekeeping uniform, save for the hood. I was preparing a modest lunch for us to share using some of the milk so graciously provided by Silver’s goat, whom he had named Walrus. It served as some private joke between him and James that I was not privy to. 

“How are the bees today, my dear?” 

“Ah, marvelous as ever, it seems. My analysis of the social behaviours of the queen is going swimmingly!” 

He removed his protective garment in a swift motion, abandoning it on the floor for a moment to come toward me and leave a gentle kiss upon my cheek. My hands were occupied with the potatoes I was chopping, but I leaned into the affection as best I could. 

“Splendid. Please do not leave your apiary equipment in the entryway, my love, we may have guests any time as you know.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he resigned, fetching the items and folding them away into the linen closet. It was quite true, my statement of perpetual guests. While always cordial and respectful of our privacy, our friends and neighbours could knock upon our door at any point throughout the day. Whether it be Silver with a blinding smile and his goat’s milk that sometimes came in the form of cheese, Miranda with a jar of this month’s royal jelly from her own hives to share and discuss with Sherlock, or James coming to play checkers with me and share a glass of wine. There was rarely a lonesome day in Marilès, and it brought me immense joy to know as much.

“The tale of our treacherous case with the Baskervilles has gone over well, it seems. A bit late, given the nature of things now, but the common public does not appear to mind. The tale of the infamous rebel Sherlock Holmes is somehow more popular than that of the consulting detective.”

“Hmm,” he hummed as he packed his clay pipe, lifting his feet to rest upon the settee. “The man posing as the author seems to be a nice enough fellow. Rather ignorant to the nature of things, but that is quite a good thing in this case. What was his name, again?  _ Doyle,  _ was it?”

“Yes, that’s right.” I met Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle when he first moved to London, and we made acquaintance on occasion. He had written several historical fiction pieces surrounding wartimes, as well as some work involving what he referred to as  _ spiritualism.  _ It seemed, despite his usual publications, that he was interested in Sherlock’s deductive studies enough to entertain serving as my literary agent.

Sherlock smiled then, as though the idea of becoming a storybook character enthused him deeply.

“I imagine he will venture to make me a far more proper man than is true. Perhaps that is what the public wants, after all I never was aware of such things.” He turned to look at me, then, with a splitting grin upon his face. We both stared at one another for a moment before bursting into a fit of laughter. 

“Ah, well. He says that he will be republishing and editing my previous works under his own title. Instead of the chronicles of a real detective, you will be immortalised as nothing more than a serial hero.”

“How bizarre, is it not, John? To think that England hated me so as a living man, but as a strange figment of their imagination, I am more than welcome?”

There was a small sense of melancholy in the words he spoke. Despite his joy in our lives now, I knew some part of him missed his work in London. The occasional aid of a local in need only did so much to sate his yearning for adventure. Now, much of the adventure would be left to his fictional counterpart.

I made my way over to him, perched on the settee as if posing for a painting, and any part of me that may have missed London along with him vanished. At this moment, I wanted nothing else than to be with him right here. I turned his head up toward me and kissed him slowly, for no rush or anxiety filled my mind as I loved him now. 

“Do you want to know what else I saw in my trip to the apiary this afternoon?” he said as our faces still remained in close, intimate proximity. 

“What’s that?” I asked with a flirtatious grin. 

“I saw John Silver rather enthusiastically kissing Thomas Hamilton next to their orange tree.”

I grinned, entirely unsurprised by this revelation. “Well, I for one am endlessly glad. It means poor James’ risk of early heart failure is much reduced now, don’t you think?”

“I would not hold out too much hope,” Sherlock huffed, but his lips were stretched in a wide smile. “The Lieutenant was intently observing them from the entryway of their cottage and believe me when I say, dear John, he very much looked like he would not be long for this world. I pity the man. In fact, I fear for us all now—I could not possibly imagine what these two are capable of, now they are in cahoots.”

I threw my head back and laughed, and the buzz from it spread warmth in my body, all the way down to my toes. Sherlock kissed the laughter from my lips. He tasted bright and sweet as honey. We smiled into another kiss, unbothered and unburdened by anything outside of ourselves.

* * *

_ A story is true, a story is untrue; as time extends, it matters less and less. I do not live in some illusion that the story of what we did, of what we are still doing, will be told and understood one day. Yet, I know that it will remain with us, with you and me, until the day we die. I believe that we fought for something important, and that we survived something important. Charles and I know the significance of the endeavour that Lord Hamilton had embarked himself upon, and it is an endeavour that we carry within us on our travels. I would be grateful if you could pass our thanks on to him; his work lives on, and it will do so for as long as we live.  _

_ I hope you and Mr. Holmes enjoy your well-earned retirement. Do write back sometime, for I hunger for stories as always. Send any correspondence to Max in Glasgow and she will ensure it will find a way to reach me. _

_ With deep respect &c &c _

_ Jack Rackham _

* * *

At the end of our first summer in France, Madi and Max appeared one afternoon, with the grime of Glasgow still clinging to their boots. They were exhausted, yet appeared happy to see us all. Silver clung to Madi much as he had the first time I witnessed them reunite, all the while he stole glances toward James and Thomas as if he felt guilty for his affections. I tried, these days, not to think about the peculiarities of their arrangement, as much as it baffled me. For there was something lighter about James—who had once again adopted the surname McGraw—a tension that he had held for all the years I had known him, now long gone. For a second, as Madi embraced him and held him tightly, I thought I saw a flash of Flint run across his face, as quick as a shadow. Yet, in a blink it was gone—the moment Thomas threaded his fingers through his, James McGraw was once again the gentle, careful handyman, who made his living growing and selling vegetables in their garden.

Miranda held onto Madi just as tight while Max explained: “We are visiting Featherstone and Idelle, to check in on our French operations. Then we are to reconvene with Anne, Charles and Jack in Germany. We thought we may stay for dinner tonight, if it would please you.” 

And stay for dinner they did; we all took it at Mary and Miranda’s, for they had ended up with the cottage with the largest dining table, even if they were both wretched cooks. For all of our fortunes, James had everyone—most of all Silver, who was not allowed to boil water without supervision—banned from the kitchen under threat of eternal starvation. Silver seemed more than happy with this arrangement, as he entered into a lively discussion on lock-picking techniques with Sherlock. On the other side of me, Mary was excitedly chatting about her art with Madi and asking her opinion on colours, with Madi showing some of the colourful jewellery woven by her mother that she had brought with her. Max and Miranda sat next to their respective partners, quiet and observant, blazing with nothing but warm fondness and the occasional sip of red wine that they both favoured.

James reappeared to fetch something from Mary and Miranda’s pantry and announced that the roast will be served soon. He planted a gentle kiss on Silver’s cheek as he went past him, which Silver only half-returned, too busy glaring at Sherlock, who had just, from what I could hear, called him an insufferable idiot. 

It was a small, everyday affectionate gesture, yet I felt as if the air had been taken out of the room. I had seen James do this before—we had all, in the safety of our isolation, become open with our affections, even Sherlock—but the simple domesticity of it made something clench in my stomach painfully. I could not help but remember how anxious James had been in London, how cautious and fearful. Now, he seemed free in a way I could not properly put into words. I squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, mumbled something about needing some air, and stepped out onto the small porch in the back garden.

The summer evening was warm and welcoming, and it smelled of jasmine from Mary and Miranda’s garden. I closed my eyes and breathed in, deeply, trying to find my footing, unsettled by something I could not quite place. I heard a quiet, careful voice to the left of me. 

“Overwhelming, isn’t it?”

I looked to the small bench that Silver had put together not too long ago to see Thomas, sat with his legs crossed, also looking up at the sky. In his hand, he held a steaming cup of tea that smelled of lemon. 

His eyes found mine and he smiled at me; he looked rather tired, I thought.

“Not in a negative way, I don’t think. It is as though I am occupying a fantasy I can’t wake from even if I wanted to.” I observed him with care, realising that he had been mostly absent from the gleeful conversation inside. “Are you feeling all right, Thomas?”

“Quite all right, doctor, thank you.” Thomas’ eyes once again looked up at the sky. He took his time before he spoke again; at times, he struggled to find his words, this new Thomas. “I find it all a lot, too. After years of feeling barely anything, I now find myself feeling everything. I look at all I have and it all feels too fragile and unstable to hold in my hands. As if I will break it all, with the smallest of gestures.” He stopped himself as if there was a thought at the end of his sentence he did not quite wish to finish. His finger traced the handle on the cup reverently. 

It only lasted a moment. Thomas shook his head, his mouth curved into a smile and he shifted to the side of the bench. “Come sit with me, Doctor Watson. I have no port this time around, but I am sure we will make do.”

I followed the lead of his gesture and sat beside him. Even as the summer breeze swept past, Thomas appeared to emanate a warmth just as he always did. 

“I find myself having much the same response to Sherlock now. While there is an unmistakable ease with which we find ourselves fitting together, my mind cannot seem to catch up.”

Laughter erupted from Thomas’ lips, as his shoulders shook with the strength of it. “Forgive me. I do not mean to, I am just—” He looked at me once again, happiness shining in his eyes. “It was obvious to all those around you, the intensity of what you felt for each other. It was much like looking into the sun. I am ever so glad that you acted upon it, for I worry you would have burned each other otherwise. It truly is something I give thanks for in my prayers, every day. Among many things.”

Something deep and ancient in my chest ached at his words, then. Not out of any upset or misgivings, but because I could not fathom how many years of foolish silence I had allowed to exist rather than the beautiful ease I felt now.

“Have I upset you, Doctor?” Thomas asked, with gentle worry in his eyes. “For it was not my intention to do so.”

“No, not at all, Thomas. I apologise, I seem to spend much of my time these days contemplating the past more so than I should. It was so clear to you, to Mary, to James, to perhaps any poor sod who read my old stories in the Strand. And yet, my years of misery and patience do not reflect it. There are times when I feel as though I am on a different plane than the rest of the world. When I am alone with him is one of the few times I do not feel that way.”

Thomas nodded in understanding. “The past can be comfortable, at times. Safe. Certain. I find myself labouring over it as well. Thinking of my time in London, how, had I not been so foolhardy and stubborn with my politics, I could have saved us all a lot of grief and misery. I feel then, too, as if I am floating somewhere, all alone. Perhaps somewhere up there.” His eyes went to the sky again. He smiled at some memory, gentle and loving. “In times like these, it is John who understands. James, he— wishes to fix it, as he always does, wishes to make it better. John is the one who will sit with me and be silent when I need him to be, who will then tell me that I should let the embers of the past grow cold while I seek the warmth in our present day. He is correct; there is warmth, and there is love in every waking minute. I try to grab it with both hands because I deserve it. And so do you, dear friend.” 

I peered up at the starry, still night sky in contemplation of Thomas’ words. Despite all that he had endured, his prose never ceased to keep my mind focused on any word he uttered. 

“Yes, I think you may be right. The past—my life with Sherlock in London, my stories in the Strand, my practise—feels much like a tale of a dead man. One that I do not wish to relive or exist within. When I met him two decades ago, I was so in need of companionship, and was fortunate enough to be at the will of fate’s kind hand. However, the present; this night, these people I am able to call my friends, my family, are more alive and vibrant than the young, lonely John Watson was. I am grateful for many of his choices, but I wish to exist away from them now. That is the reason for sending my stories elsewhere you see. 

“Still, I find myself contemplating how this present can be my reality, how I can wake up beside him every morning. However, I think I can feel myself getting away from that thought as each day passes.”

“As you should,” Thomas replied loftily, as confident as I had ever heard him. “When I first met you, I could see your shame; it was wrapped around you so tight, I feared it would take the very breath out of you. When I see you now, you breathe ever so freely. Whether it is because of him, or because of a change within you, I am unable to tell, and it is not my business to know. All I know is that I am happy for you.” He took a long breath. “I wanted this for every man of our persuasion in England; I wanted this to be a reality for all the young John Watsons and all the young Thomas Hamiltons, who felt much like they would never belong. I failed, but in you I see my success—and that gives me some comfort. It truly helps me believe that we will all be all right, in the end.”

To think that Thomas viewed his efforts as a failure shook me for a moment. Due to his efforts, over a dozen men of our own nature were safe from the shackles Thomas so tragically fell to. I knew he was aware of such things now, and yet he did not seem plagued by the sentiment of any perceived failure. Instead, the man beside me radiated peace.

“I hope, my dear friend, that you are right.”

Thomas smiled and said nothing more, as he took a sip of his lemon tea. We sat there, under the stars, enveloped in the smell of the warm summer evening. I focused on the distant noise of the people we loved talking and laughing, so undeniably real and alive, and I thought that the young lord in disgrace was quite correct: we were all right, in the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the true end to Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace. 
> 
> I cannot even begin to explain how much this story—it’s planning, writing, and publishing processes—changed my whole perspective on my writing. Working with Tim/Toni has been incredible, and the way this story happened was so natural to the both of us. I can’t thank you all enough for the engagement you’ve been giving this fic throughout the publishing process, and the support you’ve offered to both of us authors. This story is incredibly near and dear to our hearts, as are these characters, and I’m so glad we got to share it with you.
> 
> Huge thank you’s to Mara and Finnen for editing this beast for us. Thank you to Char @CharCubed for making the gorgeous cover art (viewable on Chapter 1). Thank you to AI @AIHolmes for your brilliant plot contribution! And of course, thank you also to all of our regular readers who left comments on most/every chapter when it came out. All of you helped make this fic into what it was, and we are forever grateful. 
> 
> Much Love,  
> Phoenix and Tim <3

**Author's Note:**

> find both authors (phoenix and toni) on social media:
> 
> tumblr (phoenix): @beholdingransom (main) or @dandyholmes (holmes)
> 
> twitter: @blahaj_haver (toni) @thegearsystem (phoenix)


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